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THE HOUSE 
BY THE ROAD 


y~. V 4 ^ 

BY 

CHARLES j; DUTTON 


Author of 

“The Underwood Mystery,” “The Shadow 
on the Glass,” etc. 



: j 

NEW YORK 

DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 


1924 








COPYRIGHT, 1923, 1924 

By DODD, MEAD & COMPANY, Inc. 



% 

< 

4 

4 


PRINTED IN V. S. A* 

VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC. 
Binghamton ano new York 


MAR 27 *24 

©C1A777695 

✓vi ( I 


To my friend of many years 
J. Niles Potter 

Who will remember our walking trip through 
Vermont, when we first saw 


The House by the Road 












CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I The Knife Between the Shoulders 

PAGE 

. 1 

II 

Suspected of Murder . . . 



. 13 

III 

A Night in Jail .... 



. 35 

IV 

The Inquest. 



. 55 

V 

Bartley Takes the Case . 



. 74 

VI 

Kelly Makes an Arrest . 



. 94 

VII 

We Hear More About Culver 



. 110 

VIII 

The Light at the Window . 



. 130 

IX 

A Night of Suspense . 



. 146 

X 

A Message in Cipher . 



. 167 

XI 

Bartley Discusses the Crime 



. 186 

XII 

A New Twist to the Case . 



. 198 

XIII 

I See Culver’s Brother . 



. 215 

XIV 

Another Murder .... 



. 232 

XV 

We Receive an Early Visitor 



. 250 

XVI 

We Have Our Surprise . 



. 270 

XVII 

Bartley Ends His Case . 



. 291 















The House by the Road 


CHAPTER I 

THE KNIFE BETWEEN THE SHOULDERS 

F OR the last hour or so the motor had not 
been running smoothly, and, as I came to 
the top of the long hill, it was with a sigh 
of relief that I saw the lights of the small city far 
below. That I was glad to see them was putting it 
mildly. I had been driving all afternoon, and, ever 
since the darkness had fallen, the car had been act¬ 
ing badly. I had looked under the hood several 
times to discover what the trouble might be, yet I 
had found nothing. Nursing a heavy car along a 
dark country road, with the rain threatening to fall 
at any moment, is not a task that I enjoy. 

As I slid over the top of the hill, I saw there was 
a gradual drop of several miles before I could reach 
the lighted city in the valley below. The road was 
slippery and muddy, while the great trees on each 
side made it even darker than the night itself. It 
was a somber, lonely road, without the slightest 
1 


2 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


sign of life, or, for that matter, of houses. But I 
had seen very few houses during the afternoon, the 
roads that I had traversed being of the usual Ver¬ 
mont type, with farms far and few between. I had 
hoped to reach Springfield by evening, but the 
trouble with the engine had delayed me. Now I 
decided that I would have the car looked over in a 
garage and spend the night in the town whose lights 
lay before me. 

The car picked up in speed, as I started to run 
down the hill, and the lamps threw a yellow ray of 
light through the misty darkness. Not only were 
the first drops of rain 'shing against my face, but, 
by the way the wind was rising, I could tell that it 
would be raining very hard in a few* moments. I 
was glad the town was near at hand, for a heavy 
storm in an open car was not to my liking. The 
car skidded all over the road, which, like most 
country roads, was very narrow. The woods on 
each side seemed simply a black mass, and it was 
one of the darkest niglT I had ever seen. For a 
moment I pictured Bartle^ his library—the fire¬ 
place with its cheery blaze—and the great room 
with its walls of books making me wish that I, too, 
were there. It was about ten o’clock, and Bartley 
would be seated in his large chair, a book in his 
hand, and his Airedale, “Trouble,” at his feet. 


THE KNIFE BETWEEN SHOULDERS 3 


The wind had heightened considerably during the 
short time that had elapsed since I first saw the 
lights of the town, and it was now blowing in short 
and angry gusts that caused the trees on each side 
of the road to lash to and fro. The rain was falling 
steadily and heavily, and already I was pretty wet. 
I no longer could see the lights of the town, a bend 
in the road ahead of me hiding them from sight. 
One of the headlights had gone wrong, and, the hill 
being very steep at this point, I had to put on the 
brake. The car lurched and slipped from one side 
of the road to the other, and I cursed the friend 
who had picked this route ' Tne, saying that the 
dirt roads were very good. * r ' 

I think I had gone about a mile when I noticed 
that the speed of the car was decreasing. I threw 
on more gas, but with no appreciable result. 
Suddenly, with a half sigh, the engine gave a little 
cough and “died.” The car rolled a few feet 
farther and stopped. I could tell that I had come 
to a level place in the ro-' 3} beyond which the hill 
dipped away again—t/tri - that was not very con¬ 
soling. I tried everything I could think of to start 
the car again, but in vain. Climbing out into the 
mud, I grasped the crank and cranked till I thought 
my back would break, but nothing came of it. The 
engine refused to respond. 


4 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

Straightening up, I made a few choice remarks 
to no one in particular, and then, feeling a bit better, 
threw the crank into the car and tried to think what 
I should do next. Somewhere below me was the 
town, not more than a mile away. If I walked 
there, I could soon have a garage send a man out 
to the car. But I did not feel overmuch like walk¬ 
ing. The wind was blowing the rain in sheets 
against me, a cold rain that seemed to cut through 
my clothes. Long before I reached the town, I 
would be in the state of the proverbial wet hen. 
The walking itself would not be pleasant, for the 
road was slippery with mud, the wet, clinging soil 
of a country road. What to do, I scarcely knew, 
and the longer I stood in the road, the wetter and 
colder I would become. 

I gave a glance around, and then for the first 
time I noticed distinctly where stretched the woods, 
dark and forbidding; on the other, at my right, I 
could make out the dim figure of a house—a house 
that loomed ghostly and faintly against the dark¬ 
ness—a huge black mass. It was set some distance 
from the road, with a few trees in what I thought 
must be a yard—trees bending and swaying in the 
wind. The house was not far away, but in the dark¬ 
ness I was unable to distinguish any signs of life 
about it. No light streamed from any window; no 


THE KNIFE BETWEEN SHOULDERS 5 


dog barked a warning at me from the yard. Back 
of the house, simply great masses of darkness, were 
what I judged to be the bams. 

For a moment I gazed at the house. I had not 
noticed it when the car stopped, because all my 
attention had been needed to keep the car in the 
road. But it struck me that the car could not 
have stopped in a better place. True, the house 
seemed to be uninhabited, yet I instinctively felt 
that some one must live there. If so, then I could 
telephone to a garage in the town, I thought, or per¬ 
haps find in the house somebody who knew about 
cars. 

Leaving the car, I walked over toward the house. 
I came against a fence, but in a second found the 
gate, which was swung half open. A pebbled walk, 
the stones slippery from the rain, led to the house 
which loomed silent before me. Though it was very 
dark, yet I could faintly make out the yard. The 
grass was almost waist-high, overhanging the sides 
of the walk, which was littered with the small 
branches which the high wind had blown from the 
trees. Even the steps that led to the veranda had 
rotted away with age. 

I found myself on a large piazza that seemed to 
extend the entire length of the front of the house, 
and it was here I received a surprise. There had 


6 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


been no signs of light from any of the windows, and 
I soon discovered that there could not have been, 
for all the windows were boarded up with heavy, 
thick boards which had been nailed across them. 
Evidently the house was deserted, and I would 
receive no help here. 

For a moment I stood wondering whether it would 
not be wiser for me to walk to the village. The 
only sound was the wind lashing through the trees, 
the dropping of small branches in the near-by woods, 
and the dashing of the rain against the side of the 
house. It was certainly raining hard, and seemingly 
it was increasing—a steady, heavy downpour, a 
rain that would wet one to the skin in a few seconds 
if one were out in it. Even on the veranda it was 
nearly as bad, for the wind whipped the rain across 
it in sheets. Crouching up against the side of the 
house, I decided to wait there, at least till the storm 
had abated somewhat. 

I had stood there perhaps five minutes, feeling 
lonely and a bit depressed, when I noticed that the 
front door of the house was only a few feet away. 
I had made up my mind it was useless to expect 
to find that any one lived there, since the whole 
appearance of the house and yard, to say nothing 
of the boarded windows, testified that the place 
was deserted. But I went over to the door and 


THE KNIFE BETWEEN SHOULDERS 7 


then suddenly I stopped and stood silently looking 
at it. The door was open, swaying back and forth 
with the wind, yet for some reason not swinging 
to far enough to close. 

As I stood, watching the door swing to and fro, I 
was frankly puzzled. If the house was deserted, 
with the windows boarded as they were, I would 
have expected to find the door locked—but it was 
open. I placed my hand against it and peered into 
the dark hall. It was a black cave, silent, gloomy, 
depressing. Not a sound came from within—only 
the wind and the dashing of the rain could be heard. 
I looked steadily, as if by the intensity of my gaze 
I could pierce the dense blackness. As my eyes 
became more accustomed to the darkness, I could 
dimly make out the darker shadows that marked 
the furniture in the hall. The house was deserted, 
yet it was furnished. 

My hand, groping over the door, fell against a 
bell, one of those old-fashioned bells which you 
turn to ring. Hardly knowing why, I turned the 
bell. There came a loud, clanging ring, that surged 
through the house like the sound of a clarion, dying 
away in a ghostly echo. But there came no re¬ 
sponse, and I did not ring again; the sound had 
been a bit more dismal than I enjoyed under the 
circumstances. 


8 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


There came another gust of wind, and I felt the 
house rock, followed by a burst of rain that dashed 
over me and into the hall. I was rapidly getting 
soaked more and more, and if I stayed on the out¬ 
side I would be drenched to the skin in a moment. 
I turned and gave a half glance at the road, where 
the lamps of the car cast a friendly shaft of light 
in the distance. 

Now I turned again and stepped into the hall, 
going a few feet, then pausing. Why I paused I 
do not know. But for a second it seemed that, 
above the sound of the storm, the dashing of the 
rain against the house, I had heard a sound, a sound 
that I could not locate definitely, a sound which 
seemed to come from overhead. Yet I was not sure. 
I paused, waiting, listening eagerly. In another 
moment I concluded that I had been deceived, for 
there was nothing to be heard but the wind and the 
rain. 

I had stumbled against what must have been a ta¬ 
ble, and for a second I stood silent, steadying my¬ 
self with one hand. There seemed to be stairs that 
ran to the second floor, for there was a dark mass at 
the end of the hall. But I could not distinguish 
anything, and I wished that I had brought my flash 
light from the car. The house was still, though 


THE KNIFE BETWEEN SHOULDERS 9 


once in a while I could hear something creak, as 
a dash of wind beat against the walls. 

As I stood there, waiting for the rain to let up, 
I began to feel a bit queer. The darkness, the old 
house, the weird sound of the wind in the trees, 
began to affect me. There seemed to be something 
that I could feel, some psychological thing that made 
me nervous. I peered down the hall. It stretched 
dark and lonely ahead of me. Nothing moved, 
and no sound came to my ears except the wind and 
the rain outside. Yet I felt lonesome, and that old 
racial fear of the dark which is in us all began to 
sweep over me. I thought of Bartley’s assertion 
that “we fear the dark because in man’s subcon¬ 
scious mind there is the long heritage of the past, 
when the darkness held danger of mankind.” I 
was not afraid, but I began to wish more earnestly 
than ever that the car had not broken down. 

Shaking off the feeling that was creeping over me, 
I moved a few feet farther into the hall, stumbling 
over a chair, the noise of which echoed through the 
house. Before me, on my right, was a door that evi¬ 
dently led into a parlor, and it was open. The room, 
because of the boarded windows, was darker than the 
hall. In the hall, the open door had afforded a 
glimmer of light from without, but the room I peered 


10 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


into was black—with a darkness that one could not 
pierce, nor distinguish even the shadow of an object. 

Why I did it, I never knew, but I groped my way 
into the room, stumbling against a chair in which I 
seated myself. At any rate it was better than being 
out in the rain and better than standing in the hall. 
But the longer I sat there the more uneasy I became. 
There seemed to be nothing to cause the uneasiness. 
Perhaps it was the loneliness of it all, the dark, de¬ 
serted house, the sound of the storm. But, as I 
sat there, I began to feel creepy. The darkness 
seemed almost as if it were alive—a darkness that 
crept around one, stifling one, that even seemed to 
move. The room appeared alive, as if in the shad¬ 
ows there were objects waiting to reach for one, to 
clutch and envelop one. 

I tried to explain the feeling away. Reason and 
education told me that it was caused by depression. 
Yet, at the same time, reason helped little. I could 
feel something, something that seemed to threaten 
me, something indescribable that was around, that 
held a portent of evil. I half started to rise to go 
out into the open, raining though it was, when the 
thought of running away simply because it was 
dark caused me to fall back into my seat. 

For a while the feeling of depression vanished, 
as I listened eagerly, hoping the storm had died 


THE KNIFE BETWEEN SHOULDERS 11 


away sufficiently for me to walk to the town. Then 
the feeling began to come back. Something told 
me I was not alone in the room, something was 
there with me, something that in the dense darkness 
waited, as I was waiting, something evil, something 
I could feel, but could not see. A little shiver of 
fear went over me, and to throw it aside I reached 
for my cigarette case. Finding my lighter, I opened 
it, and there came the little burst of flame that split 
the blackness around me. I started to apply it to 
my cigarette, when suddenly my glance fell at my 
feet—at an object lying there. 

As my hand trembled, and I bent forward to look, 
the cigarette was forgotten, and the flame in the 
lighter shook because of the trembling of my hand. 
Half dazed, I looked at the object at my feet, and 
I know my face went white. With a hand that 
shook I held the lighter lower and half bent for¬ 
ward. I had felt a presence in the room, I had 
known I was not alone there, and I had not been. 

For, as I looked, there at my feet lay a man—a 
man who would not stir again, to whom the storm 
and the darkness would never matter. A man, 
half turned on his side, with a look of horror and 
fright upon the upturned face. And, as I looked, 
it did not need the sight of the knife that protruded 
between his shoulders to tell me what had taken 


12 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


place. Something had been there with me. There 
in that darkened house, with the wind and the rain 
dashing against its sides, I was alone with a mur¬ 
dered man. 


CHAPTER II 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 

I CANNOT say just how long I bent forward, 
looking at the still figure that lay at my feet. 
My hand was trembling, and the little flicker¬ 
ing flame from the lighter cast weird dancing shad¬ 
ows over the floor. Before I had started to light 
my cigarette I had felt afraid; I was still afraid. 
There in the lonely house, with only the wind and 
the rain to break the silence, I was alone with a 
dead man—a murdered man. The combination was 
a bit too much for me. I was afraid. 

I arose to my feet and made a hasty exit to the 
hall, and in a second I was out on the veranda. 
There I paused for a moment to catch my breath 
and to think. It was still raining, though not so 
hard as it had been a few minutes ago. But now 
it seemed even darker than before, with heavy, 
thick clouds lying low in the sky. The light from 
the car, which split the darkness of the silent 
road, was the only thing that reassured me. Some¬ 
how that thin ray of light seemed cheerful and 
friendly. 


13 


14 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

I moved over to the rail, away from the door, not 
minding the rain that beat upon me. Two thoughts 
were running through my mind. There was no 
doubt that the man within the house had been mur¬ 
dered. The knife which was still between his 
shoulders spoke more eloquently of that than any¬ 
thing else. No one could commit suicide in such a 
manner. But what was he doing in the house? 
That it had been deserted, I could tell by the 
boarded-up windows. Yet the faint glimpse I had 
had of the room told me that it was furnished. The 
unkempt lawn, however, with its high grass that had 
brushed against my feet when I went up the walk, 
showed that for some time, at least, no one had 
lived there. But why had the front door been 
unlocked? 

A sudden resolution came to me. To be honest, 
I did not care to reenter the house; yet my associa¬ 
tion with Bartley was one reason why I knew I 
must. Then, again, a man had been murdered, and 
there was the possibility that I would be able to 
find some clew that would lead to the discovery of 
the murderer. Somewhere in the car was a flash 
light, and under the seat was a revolver. One 
would give me the light I needed, the other the pro¬ 
tection. Yet, as I hurried down the steps onto the 
pebbled walk toward the car, I wished, with all the 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 15 

zeal I could muster, that I had chosen some other 
route to return to New York. 

Only a moment was required to find the gun and 
light, and I hurried back to the veranda. The gun 
I held tightly in my hand, but, as I came to the 
door, I paused and listened before I flashed on the 
light. Though I waited several moments, I heard 
nothing; all was still within the house, not a sound 
came from its gloomy depths. The hall loomed 
dark before me, seemingly stretching silently into 
a vast distance. As I peered into it from the half 
open door, I shuddered, as I thought of the man 
who lay in the silence beyond. 

I pressed the button of the light, and it flashed 
a circle of brightness at my feet, falling on the floor 
and the edge of the door. Then I saw what had 
kept the door open, despite the wind that had been 
blowing. A book, with a rather gay jacket, lay 
between the edge of the door and the sill. The 
door was swinging slowly, moved by the wind, but 
it could not close. I gazed at the book a moment, 
though I did not pick it up. It looked very much 
as if some one had placed it there in order to keep 
the door from closing. 

As I entered, I turned the light down the hall. 
It was a long hall, which seemed to divide the house. 
A hatrack and a table of some kind were along one 


16 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

side, while a couple of chairs were placed on the 
other. Several doors, which were closed, led to 
some rooms, though what they were, of course, I 
did not know. The hall ended in a winding stair¬ 
way that led up to the second floor. But there was 
one thing I noticed, as the light fell upon the fur¬ 
niture; the chairs, table, and hatrack were covered 
with thick dust. The house had evidently not been 
lived in for a long time, perhaps for some years. 

Rather slowly, for I did not like the task before 
me, I went down the hall, pausing at almost every 
step to listen. I realized, of course, that, if the 
murderer were still in the house, say in the upper 
story, I would make a fine mark for him, standing 
in the hall, with the light in my hand. But, though 
I stopped every foot or so, I heard nothing. There 
hung a deep silence over the house, one that was 
heavy with evil, that seemed sinister and perverse— 
a silence that once more caused the feeling of fear 
and dread which I had first felt creep over me. 

I paused at the entrance of the room and threw 
the light into every corner, sweeping it from one end 
of the silent apartment to the other. I did not ex¬ 
pect to find anything there, nor did I. As the yel¬ 
low ray rested upon each bit of furniture, I saw 
that at one time the room had been a parlor, one of 
the old-fashioned type. Old hair-covered chairs 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 


17 


stood in their proper places; a large walnut table 
occupied the center of the room, and a few steel 
engravings were on the walls. There were even 
several books upon the table, their covers musty 
with disuse. Only one thing I saw rather puzzled 
me. Directly opposite the door, on the other side 
of the room, was a great wall mirror. Its gilt frame 
was faded with age and black in spots, but the sur¬ 
prising thing was the mirror itself. It was broken 
—broken right in the center, the glass shattered 
as if from a blow. 

I took this in for a second; then my eyes turned 
to the floor, and again I saw the object that I had 
put off looking at as long as I could. There, a few 
feet from the door, lay the body of the man, his 
legs in a queer position, one arm hidden from my 
sight. I stepped within the room, and I could see, 
as I kept the light on the still figure, the knife that 
protruded between the shoulders. I stood looking 
at the still face. It was the face of a man of about 
forty-five, with dark hair and a rather prominent 
nose. As I flashed the light over the features, I 
noticed that his ears were very large, much larger 
than the average man’s, and that he was clean 
shaven. I dropped on my knees by his side, and 
then for the first time I noticed the other hand, 
the one which had been hidden by the position of 


18 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

the body. In it was clasped an automatic revolver. 

This put a new complexion on things. My first 
thought was that the man had been suddenly struck 
down from behind. Why—and, above all, the rea¬ 
son for his being in the empty house—was more than 
I could even guess. But the revolver threw a new 
light on the crime. The man must have been 
struck down from behind, the position of the knife 
showed that. But he must have had a moment’s 
warning, or else he had been suspicious when he 
entered the house. The second surprise came when, 
after a moment’s investigation of the gun, I found 
that one shot had been fired. 

Rather soberly I rose to my feet, and once more 
I threw the light around the room. The murdered 
man had fired one shot, where and at what I did 
not know. I decided not to spend any time in try¬ 
ing to find out. My first task was to notify the 
police in the town that lay about a mile away. But, 
as I turned to leave the room, it came to me that 
I ought at least to look in the other rooms. I was 
pretty sure by this time that there was no one in 
the house, but still I might find a clew. 

The rather brief search proved to be in vain. 
The rooms leading from the hall turned out to be 
a dining room and a back parlor, and there was one 
room the door of which was locked. The two rooms 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 


19 


were furnished, and in each the dust lay heavy and 
undisturbed. A kitchen in the rear, which I did 
not enter, simply throwing the light over the room, 
completed my search of the first floor. 

I hesitated for a moment at the foot of the long 
stairs which led to the second floor, then went up. 
Halfway there was a landing, from which the stairs 
ran in two ways to the upper floor. Reaching the 
second floor I found myself in a hall that stretched 
to the front of the house, with two doors on each 
side. These were all locked but one, and that 
proved to be a bedroom in the same undisturbed 
condition as I had found the rooms below. The 
search had been very far from complete, but, brief 
as it was, there had been found nothing out of the 
way. 

For a second I stood at the head of the stairs 
before I descended, trying to figure out what it 
all might mean. That the man had been murdered 
was, of course, clear. Why, and for what reason, 
I had not the slightest idea. Why the deserted 
house should be used, was more puzzling. The 
thought flashed over me that perhaps he had been 
asked to come there. But of this I was not sure. 
Dismissing all idea of trying to fathom the mystery 
I had found, I started down the stairs. My first 
duty was to notify the police. 


20 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


As I went out into the air, I found that the rain 
was over, and it had become a bit foggy. Through 
the faint mist flared the light of the car in the road. 
When I reached its side I looked at it a moment, 
wishing it had never stalled on me in the particular 
spot it had chosen. But it had; and, perhaps, if it 
had not, the crime would not have been discovered 
for many days. I climbed into the machine, more 
in order to place the flash light under the seat than 
for anything else, and in some manner I stumbled 
upon the button of the starter. With a sudden roar 
the engine started into life. 

I knew I swore at the sound, not because it was 
unpleasant, but at the perversity of engines in 
general. A short while before the starter had re¬ 
fused to start; now, when I placed my foot on it by 
accident it had worked. But the noise of the en¬ 
gine sounded good, for it meant that I would not 
have to walk down the muddy country road to the 
town. 

Slowly the car started to creep down the hill, 
slipping from side to side in the mud. Whatever 
had been the trouble with the engine before, it was 
going all right now; so half slipping, half driving, 
I crept along till I reached a bend in the road. I 
saw the first electric light of the town a few hundred 
yards away. It was a welcome sight, and I half 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 21 

grinned at the friendly lights shining through the 
mist. 

In a moment I was running past the first light, 
over a smooth pavement. I had hoped to find a 
policeman at once who would direct me to the police 
station; but, as I drove along, there was none in 
sight. In fact, the town seemed larger than I had 
thought it would be. The street I was driving down 
was wide, with great trees lining each side. 
Through them I caught glimpses of well-kept 
lawns and large houses set back from the road. Far 
ahead the lights seemed to be brighter, and I judged 
that I was approaching the business section. Once 
there, I should have no trouble in finding the police 
station. 

Several moments later I swung over the car tracks 
and turned into a rather well-lighted street that ran 
down a slight incline. Stores, mostly small, it is 
true, were on either side of me, and I passed the 
gayly lighted fronts of several picture houses. 
Then came a large square, evidently the center of 
the town, with a bank on my right and a white 
church with a tall steeple on my left. I knew that 
in the country towns the court house, the jail, and 
the police station often occupied the same building 
and, as a rule, faced the town square. If it were 
so here, I should find it in a moment. About a 


22 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

second later I saw a dim electric sign that read 
“Police Station.” 

I stopped the car before the great building—a 
building with the usual columns in the front—and 
started toward the door under the sign. It was in 
front of the door that the first thought came of the 
position I might be in. I was about to enter a 
police station in a town where I did not know a 
soul, to inform the chief that a murder had been 
committed. What he might think of my story I 
hardly dared to guess. But it had to be told; so 
pushing open the door, I entered. 

The room was a large one, and over by a desk 
sat a man smoking and reading a newspaper. He 
gave me a glance when I opened the door, and 
waited for me to speak. I judged he was a police 
officer of some kind, and in the city we would have 
called him the desk man. 

“Is the chief around?” I asked. 

Rather languidly he motioned to a door that was 
on the other side of the room and went back to his 
paper. I might want to see the chief, but he had 
no interest in it. I crossed the room and started 
to place my hand on the knob of the door, when I 
heard the rumble of a voice from within. Some 
one was either talking or reading, but, as I heard 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 23 

no answering voice, I pushed the door open and 
entered. 

I had done it so softly that the man seated in a 
chair, with his feet stretched across to another, did 
not hear me or glance up. He was a big, raw-boned 
individual, with a rather large, though not over- 
intelligent face. The large, shining silver badge on 
his coat bore the word “Chief” in letters large 
enough to be read across the room. In his hands 
was a large heavy book, and he was reading in a 
rough, uncultured voice: 

“Let me have men around me that are fat, 
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights. 

Yon Cassius hath a lean and hungry look. 

Such men are dangerous.” 

It was the chief of police and he was sitting in a 
back room reading Shakespeare aloud. 

Just as he finished the word “dangerous/ 4 he must 
have sensed my presence, for he looked up and gave 
a start. His face flushed a little, and he brought 
his legs down with a bang on the floor, dropping the 
book on the desk. He had an inquiring look in 
his eyes as he turned toward me. No doubt he was 
wondering who I was and what I wanted. 

It took me only a few moments to tell him what I 


24 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


had found. He listened, his eyes growing big with 
surprise. Once or twice his gaze traveled over me, 
as if he half doubted my story and wondered who 
I was. But he kept silent till I finished; then he 
asked: 

“And where might this house be where you say 
you found a dead man?” 

I described the road as best I could. When I 
spoke of the boarded windows, I saw by the look 
in his eyes that he knew the place. 

“You know the house?” I asked. 

He nodded. “Sure, its the old Yard place. But 
it’s all locked up, and no one has lived there for 
a dozen years.” 

His eyes went back a bit regretfully to the 
book he had been reading; then he turned and 
gravely looked me over. He had a likable face, 
and in his blue eyes there lurked a hint of 
humor. 

“Sure you have not been seeing things?” he in¬ 
quired. “The booze nowadays is bad stuff.” 

I shook my head, informing him there could be 
no mistake as to what I had seen—that back in the 
lonely house there was a murdered man. He 
listened soberly enough; then he rose from his chair 
and started for the door. As he passed me, I heard 
him say in a low voice: 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 


25 


“Awake! Awake! 

Ring the alarum bell—murder and treason-” 

Without speaking a word to me, he passed into 
the other room. 

I had seen in my time many queer police chiefs, 
but never before had I run into one like this—one 
who read Shakespeare aloud and quoted him. I 
smiled, as I pictured Bartley’s amusement when 
I should tell him how my story had been received. 
But my next thought was what I should do. The 
chief had passed from the room without saying a 
word to me. I could tell from his manner that he 
half doubted my story, and, as I thought of his 
remark that the house had not been lived in for a 
dozen years, I hardly blamed him. But what did 
he expect me to do? 

I half started to leave the room, when he sud¬ 
denly returned. He had taken on a more energetic 
air and bustled into my presence with a little show 
of importance. He spoke when he had but reached 
the door: 

“I have telephoned to our coroner, Doctor Reming¬ 
ton, and he will be here in a moment in his car. 
If your car will hold another man, I will go with 
you, and the doctor can take one of the police 
officers.” 


26 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


I nodded, assuring him that the car was roomy 
enough for both. He bustled over to his desk 
and, opening a drawer, took a revolver from it, 
placing it in his pocket. He informed me that the 
house was just within the town limits, and that 
brought the affair within his jurisdiction. He said 
nothing more, and I could not but wonder. He had 
not asked any question as to who I might be. In¬ 
stead he acted as though it were the usual thing for 
strangers to rush into his office and inform him 
that a murder had been committed. Neither had 
he asked for any description of the man. As I 
looked at the chief, I came to the conclusion that 
he had been so startled by my story that, for the 
time being, he had little thought for any questions 
regarding myself. 

Suddenly there came the shrill shrieking of an 
automobile horn outside. The chief started from 
the room, motioning for me to follow him. In the 
outer office he spoke to a policeman who must have 
entered since I passed through the room. He then 
went out into the night, the policeman and myself 
following him. 

There was a large car drawn up by the curb, in 
which I caught a glimpse of a young man. The 
chief went over and held a short, low-whispered 
conversation with him, and I heard the voice of 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 27 

the doctor, as I judged it was, in reply. The chief 
then returned to my side and followed me into my 
car. The doctor’s car started first, and I followed 
it down the road, retracing the route I had taken 
a few moments before. We were soon out of the 
town, for the doctor was driving like a fiend. We 
left the lights of the town behind, and up the slip¬ 
pery road we went at a far faster speed than I had 
come down a while ago. It seemed only a few 
seconds before both cars were standing in front of 
the place for which we were headed. 

Silently we got out, and I gave a little shudder, 
as I saw the dim form of a house through the dark¬ 
ness. We all stood a second looking at it. It was 
silent, dark, and eerie. For a moment we looked, 
and then the chief took one step toward the path. 
As he did so, there suddenly broke in on the silence 
the most dismal howl that I have ever heard. It 
rose and fell, rising at the end on a high note that 
trembled away into the silence. Somewhere near 
the house there was a dog, with his nose raised to 
the dark sky, pouring out his soul in a howl of 
horror. 

It was so horrible a note, that for a moment it 
must have unnerved us all. The chief hesitated, 
half saying something under his breath; and then, 
as if gathering his courage, started for the house. 


28 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


I followed, the doctor bringing up the rear, with 
the policeman next to him. The chief had provided 
himself with a powerful flash light, and, as we fol¬ 
lowed along the wet path, the gravel crunching 
under our feet, he threw the light in a sweeping 
gesture in front of him. 

We reached the veranda and there, as we came up 
the steps, we saw the dog. Just what kind of a 
dog it was I did not discover, for I never saw him 
again. But it was a fair-sized dog, coal-black, 
crouched up against the side of the house, with his 
nose raised, whimpering in the air. And one glance 
was all I needed to discover that the dog was afraid, 
deadly frightened, in fact. His tail was tight be¬ 
tween his legs, his body was trembling, and his nose 
was raised toward the black clouds in the sky. He 
half slunk to the porch floor when he saw us, and 
his eyes gleamed under the light that the chief 
turned on him. But as the chief reached forth his 
hand to grab him, he gave a low growl, that was 
half a whine, and dashed from the porch and around 
the house. 

I saw the doctor give a little shiver, as he said: 
“Good Lord! It would make you think of a devil.” 
But no one else spoke. 

By the open door of the house we stood a moment, 
and the chief asked me in what room I had seen the 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 29 

body. I told him, and he brushed by me into the 
hall, we following. The hall was still deserted, and, 
as the combined lights from the electric torches of 
the doctor and the chief traveled down its length, 
I saw that it had not been disturbed since I left. 
But we did not stop; instead we passed to the room 
where the murdered man lay. 

As the light swept over the still figure on the 
floor, there broke from the chief’s lips a single “Ah.” 
No one spoke or moved. The sight of the figure 
on the floor had been too overpowering. I saw the 
chief give me a sudden look. What it meant I did 
not know, but I had the idea that up to this moment 
he had but half believed the story I had told him. 

The doctor broke the tension by dropping on his 
knees beside the body. His long, nervous fingers 
made a quick examination, while the chief’s light 
played over them both. I saw that the doctor 
could not have been over thirty. His face was 
a boyish one, and though the lines were tense now, 
one could tell that his lips were the sort that smiled. 
Upon the lapel of his coat I caught the glint of a 
button, telling of service overseas. 

It was not till he half turned the body over that 
he spoke, and then it was with a sudden start. His 
voice was eager, and excited, as he cried: 

“Why, chief, this is James Culver!” 


30 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

“What!” came the chief’s half disbelieving voice. 
“It can’t be; he has been away the past six weeks, 
and he is not expected back for some time yet.” 

The doctor rose to his feet and stood silently 
looking at the dead man. Then he half drawled: 
“Maybe it can’t be, but it is.” 

The chief flashed the light over the face. It was 
the face of a man of about forty-five or fifty, not 
a pleasant face, but one that told at once the man 
had been accustomed to having his own way. It 
was a cruel face, with something ruthless about 
it—clean shaven, with a very prominent nose, and 
about as large a pair of ears as I have ever seen. 
But it was the eyes that held me. They were not 
only wide open, as are the eyes of all people who 
meet death suddenly, but there was a look of sur¬ 
prise and fright in their staring gaze, as if that last 
look, before death had blotted all away, had been 
one of mingled horror and astonishment. 

Who the man was, of course, I did not know; 
but the doctor knew, and the chief, too. And from 
what they said, they seemed far more surprised at 
discovering who the murdered man was than that a 
murder had been committed. I judged it was a 
townsman, and, from what the chief had said, one 
who was thought to be away. But I knew nothing 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 


31 


else, and, as the chief went through the pockets of 
the clothes, I tried to puzzle the thing out. 

When the chief rose from his examination of the 
contents of the pockets, his very manner seemed to 
change. His voice became crisp, his manner alert, 
and the air of boredom he had worn was dropped. 
He turned to me. 

“Tell us how you happened to stop here.” 

As briefly as I could, I told of the car stalling, 
and how I had come to the house, hoping to be able 
to telephone for help; I told of entering the house 
and what I had found. The doctor and the chief 
listened without a word till I finished, when the 
chief suddenly said: 

He paused abruptly. 

“You say your car would not go. Yet you 
seem to have got down to town in it, and it brought 
us up here.” 

I explained how I had stumbled on the button 
of the starter, and how surprised I had been when 
it had responded. What they thought of it, I could 
not say, for their faces were in the shadow, and 
they said nothing. The only response was the reply 
of the chief, and the tone in which he spoke was 
such that it left me wondering. 

“It was lucky you were able to start it again.” 


32 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


The next thirty minutes were spent in a search 
of the house. They did not try to enter the rooms 
that were locked, though I would not have expected 
that to be done. However, their search revealed 
nothing. Everywhere there was the same deserted 
air, the same dust of years, showing that the house 
had not been occupied for a long time. But as 
for a clew to any one’s having been in the house— 
they found none. In fact, as we came down the 
stairs, the chief said that perhaps the man had not 
been killed in the house, after all. 

When we reached the main floor, the chief called 
the doctor to one side, and they held a whispered 
conversation. All that came to my ears were the 
last words, “I will send some one right up.” Then 
he came to my side and asked me to take him back 
to town. 

The ride down the wet hill was a silent one; the 
chief said nothing, and I had no reason to talk. 
True, I wanted to ask him his opinion of what he 
had seen, but something told me it was better to 
keep silent. It was not till we swung round the 
courthouse and stopped in front of the police sta¬ 
tion, that the chief said anything, and then it was 
simply to ask me to come in with him. 

The news of what had taken place must have got 
out, for, when we entered the station, the room was 


SUSPECTED OF MURDER 


33 


hazy with cigar smoke and half filled with men. 
The chief motioned for me to go into the back room, 
and all eyes were turned curiously upon me, as I 
followed his suggestion. I closed the door behind 
me and sank into the nearest chair, trying to think. 
The attitude of the chief did not please me. He 
had not cared to talk, and I would have given a 
great deal to know what was running through his 
mind. I soon found out. 

The door opened, and he came in, throwing his 
hat on the desk. He fingered the pages of his 
Shakespeare a moment, then turned: 

“What do you expect to do next?” he asked. 

“Well,” I replied, “my first idea is that I will 
go to a hotel and put up for the night; I suppose 
you will want me at the inquest.” 

He gave me, a curious look, his face heavy and 
expressionless, and his eyes traveled all over me. 
Then he said solemnly: “Young man, you have 
come in here with a tale: 

“ ‘Murder most foul, as in the best it is; 

But this most foul, strange, and unnatural.’ ” 

I could agree with this, but the unnatural thing to 
me was to hear him quote Hamlet. But I said 
nothing. Again his grave look traveled over me. 

“You come in here with this tale of murder, and 


34 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


it’s murder all right,” he said soberly, “but I don’t 
know you from Adam himself, and that story of 
your car stopping sounds queer. The only foot¬ 
prints we found in the house are those from your 
muddy shoes on the stairs, and”—he paused a sec¬ 
ond—“there is the blood on your coat sleeve.” 

I gave a startled look at the sleeve of my coat. 
There on the right sleeve, a little above the cuff, 
was a large spot of blood dried and black, it was true. 
The blood must have got on the coat when I bent 
over the body. The sight of it held me speechless. 

Again the chief looked at me. “ ‘Murder most 
foul,’ ” he began to quote, then paused and added: 
“Young man, you won’t need a room in a hotel to¬ 
night. This is a pretty good jail, and I have lots 
of spare room. So I am going to keep you under 
my eye till the coroner’s jury and the district attor¬ 
ney make up their minds what to do with you.” 

Half stupefied by amazement at the unexpected 
turn things had taken, I looked at him in astonish¬ 
ment, unable to speak. 

“Yes,” he said, nodding his head, “you are going 
to stay right here a while. Maybe you don’t know 
anything about that murder; then, again, maybe you 
do. But I am taking no chances. That’s a pretty 
fast car you have out there, and I am going to keep 
my hands on you, while I have you.” 


CHAPTER III 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 

F ROM the beginning I had expected that I 
would be held as a witness at the inquest, 
which I knew must come. I had even 
thought that my story might seem a bit incredible, 
but I had never thought for a second that I would be 
suspected of the murder. Yet this was what the 
words of the chief seemed to imply. A look at his 
serious face, a look which he returned gravely, 
caused a sinking feeling to rush over me. My 
sudden arrival, combined with the story I had told 
and the sight of the murdered man, had been too 
much for the chief. 

I started to protest, but with a gesture he slowly 
shook his head, as he said: 

“Now, I don’t say you killed that man, don’t 
think that you did; but you come in here and tell 
me a wild yarn, and there is blood on your clothes. 
If I let you go, with that fast car of yours, you might 
be hundreds of miles away in the morning. Then 
what would they say—what would they think about 
me?” 


35 


36 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


I half started to answer his question. I could see 
his position, and I recognized how weak my own 
was; but he gave me no time to speak, answering it 
himself. 

“They would say, Where is that young man who 
found the body? Why did the chief not keep his 
hands on him?’ And then where would I be?” he 
asked as he threw out his hands in a gesture. 

Suddenly I liked the man. There was something 
about the honest face in its open simplicity that ap¬ 
pealed, though I could not help wondering why he 
had been chosen chief of police. Yet I had the idea 
he was far from a fool—that he was one of those 
fast-disappearing Yankee types whose looks give lit¬ 
tle hint of their real shrewdness and ability. Would 
that the type might live! 

Rather earnestly I told him who I was. I spent 
some little time in telling of my connection with Bart¬ 
ley, and of Bartley’s commanding position in his field 
as a criminal investigator. If he had ever heard of 
his name, he did not show it. Instead, his face re¬ 
mained expressionless, though his eyes did not leave 
my face. I tried to convince him how absurd it was 
to think I knew anything about the crime, and I 
grew eloquent as I tried to explain what a laughing¬ 
stock it would make of both of us when it came 
out that I had been held as a suspect. 


37 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 

When I had finished, he half smiled. “I’d rather 
have them laugh at me,” he said slowly, “than have 
them say I was an easy mark, and laughing won’t 
hurt you or me.” 

He paused a moment, as if running over what he 
wished to say next, then added: “Now, all you say 
may be true but-” 

I half started to protest, but, as he noticed my 
flushed face, he continued: “Now, don’t get ex¬ 
cited. I guess it is all true, but I never heard of that 
friend of yours, who you say is so famous, or of you. 
Suppose you send him a telegram, and if it’s all as 
you say, he will take care of you.” 

“And in the meantime?” I questioned. 

He studied the floor for a moment, then half 
drawled: “Well, in the meantime I will keep my 
eye on you, but I won’t lock you up in an ordinary 
cell. The jail here is back of my house; it’s really 
part of it. I have a room there, where you can 
spend the night, and I will be able to keep my eye 
on you.” 

I flushed, protesting: “But it will be the same 
thing.” 

He nodded. “Yes, perhaps; you know ‘A rose by 

any other name-’ ” but he did not complete the 

quotation. 

Some one called to him from the other room at 




38 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

that moment, and, after first giving me a piece of 
paper for the telegram, he went out, closing the door 
behind him. 

I moved over to a chair by the table and for sev¬ 
eral moments stared blankly at the sheet of paper 
before me. The position I was in was awkward 
enough, but I was not thinking of that. It was the 
sheer absurdity of it all. That I should be held 
under a half suspicion of murder, did not at first 
bother me. Suddenly the thought came to me, that 
it might be rather difficult even to prove that I was 
not guilty. I knew, when the story got out, with 
what glee my old newspaper friends would play it up 
on their front pages. No matter what happened, I 
was in for some very uncomfortable moments. So, 
cursing myself under my breath, I wrote a telegram 
to Bartley, one that told rather fluently the trouble I 
was in. 

The telegram finished, I leaned back in my chair 
and stared moodily at the floor. I could picture 
what Bartley was doing at that moment. He would 
be in his library, looking over some recent importa¬ 
tion from France. I could even see in fancy the 
flickering flames from the fireplace, as they cast 
weird shadows upon the walls. I could picture the 
Airedale sleeping in front of the fire; and Bartley’s 
fine face rose before me. I half blushed when I 


39 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 

thought of the chuckle of amusement he would give 
when he read the telegram and discovered the pre¬ 
dicament I was in. 

Suddenly the door opened, and the chief returned. 
He had his hat on and informed me that we might as 
well go over to his house. I picked up the telegram, 
which I gave him, and followed him out into the 
other room. This time it was filled, and the smoke 
of cheap cigars and old pipes hung heavy over the 
group of excited men. Conversation suddenly 
ceased when the chief entered, and all eyes were 
turned curiously upon me as I threaded my way 
through the crowded room. Even before I closed 
the door, the excited voices broke out again. It 
needed no stretching of my imagination to picture 
what they were talking about. 

As we reached the sidewalk, the chief informed 
me that there was a large garage around the corner. 
We climbed in, and, following his directions, I 
drove across the dimly lighted square, down past 
the white church, and ended in front of a large 
square building. The front part was a dwelling 
house, but the larger portion of the building was 
evidently used for a jail. Across the windows were 
iron bars, and no lights streamed from them. It 
looked gloomy and sinister. I drove the car into 
the garage opposite the house, and, after leaving 


40 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


instructions to look for the trouble, I followed the 
chief out iri|g the street. From the glances of 
passers-by, I judged that the news of the crime and 
my connection with it were now public property. 

As we reached a side door, the chief motioned 
me to go up the steps ahead of him; I gave a shrug 
of my shoulders, as I obeyed, but said nothing. 
He pushed open the door, and I followed him into 
a large room where there was one man half asleep 
at a desk. He gave a start, as we entered, and rose 
to his feet, but the chief paid no attention to him. 
Motioning to me to follow, we passed from the 
room and up a flight of stairs and along a hall to a 
room, whose door he flung open, after he had 
turned on a light from somewhere in the hall. 

I gave a hasty, but curious, glance around the 
room. It was very large, fairly well furnished, 
with a table and a number of chairs. The bed 
looked comfortable, and the linen was clean. But 
one glance at the window told me it was barred 
like the others. I was in jail, all right, however 
much the chief might try to say I was not. Still 
it was not a cell, and for that I was thankful. 
There were even several magazines and books on 
the table. 

The chief noticed my glance at the window and, 
half apologizing, said: “This is the best I have. 


41 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 

We don’t keep our prisoners here as a rule, but, as 
I told you, I have to keep my eye on you for a few 
hours, and it won’t be so bad here. There is a 
man downstairs who will see that you are comfort¬ 
able.” He paused a moment, then added: 
“There’s no way out of here except through the 
room we passed through, and there’s a man there 
all night.” 

With that he went out, closing the door. For a 
while I stood in the center of the room, staring at 
nothing in particular. The more I thought, the 
less I liked the situation. The chief regarded my 
story with suspicion. He was taking no chances 
that I should get away, there was no doubt of 
that; for, though the chamber looked like a room 
in a cheap hotel, yet, after all, it was in the jail 
—a room, no doubt, used for favored prisoners, 
people with political pull. And then I began to 
wonder if he would send my telegram to Bartley 
at once. I knew my getting out depended on 
Bartley. 

I went over to the window and looked out. It 
was a large window, but heavy, thick iron bars ran 
across it. Even if I had wished, I would not have 
been able to escape that way. And downstairs 
there was a man on guard. From the window I 
could see over the low roofs of the near-by build- 


42 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


ings, though great trees shut off any view of the 
town. The rain had ceased, the moon was out, 
and its light, as it fell through the leaves of the 
trees, would under other circumstances have seemed 
beautiful. As it was, I had no interest in the 
moon. 

For a while I stood there, hardly even thinking. 
Then going back to the center of the room, I un¬ 
packed my bag which the chief had brought from 
the car. This done, I hesitated as to what I 
should do next; I was not sleepy; in fact, sleep was 
the thing farthest away from my thought. Also, 
it was foolish to spend much time worrying over 
my predicament; it would not make things any 
better. So, dropping down in a chair, which I 
pulled over by the window, I began to think of the 
crime I had stumbled on. 

The man had been murdered; there was no doubt 
of that. But the picture of the deserted house 
kept coming before my eyes. The doctor had said 
that it had been unoccupied for years; that being 
so, why had the dead man gone there, and how had 
he been killed? I remembered the shattered mir¬ 
ror, and I wondered if it had been broken by a 
bullet or a blow. If so, had the dead man seen 
his murderer? But the mirror was in front of him, 
and it was my idea that he had been struck down 


43 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 

suddenly from behind. The next thought was 
what he might have been doing in the house. Had 
he been called there to meet some one, or had he 
been followed? Then came another idea. Sup¬ 
pose some man and woman had used the deserted 
house as a place of meeting, and he had been fol¬ 
lowed and killed, by either a wronged husband or 
wife. These thoughts ran through my mind, till 
at last in disgust I gave up the idea of throwing 
any light on the crime. 

Rising to my feet, I went over to the table and 
fingered one of the books. To my surprise it was 
a new mystery story by a well-known English 
writer, one that I had not read. I picked it up and 
went back to my chair and read for about an hour. 
But the book did not hold me, and at last I flung 
it aside. I wondered, as I placed it by, what the 
writers of English crime stories would do if they 
lost some of their settings. It was the usual plot 
—the old, half-ruined castle, the mysterious man 
that came to the village, the discovery of his death, 
a mysterious Chinaman and the usual love story. 
I smiled, as I thought of the cases on which Bart¬ 
ley and I had worked. There had been no castles, 
no love stories, no Chinaman, and no sea captains 
—nothing but hard work, with never a sign of hid¬ 
den treasure. 


44 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


Suddenly there came a knock at the door, and in 
surprise I called: “Come in.” 

The door opened, and the doctor came into the 
room. There was a smile on his tanned face, and 
he said, as he closed the door behind him: 

“The chief was telling me what you said. I 
have read about your friend Bartley; in fact, I 
have his book on poisons in the office. I told the 
chief he was making a big ass of himself by keep¬ 
ing you under cover like this, but you can’t move 
him.” He grinned, took a chair, then continued: 
“You see, the chief was chosen for his position, not 
because of his brains, but because he belonged to 
a church and is honest. The churches here got 
into politics a while ago, and the chief is one of the 
results. I tried to tell him you were all right, but 
he is taking no chances.” 

He paused to light a cigarette and, blowing a 
smoke ring to the ceiling, smiled back at me. Un¬ 
der the light he seemed far younger than I had 
thought when I first saw him. His age could not 
have been over thirty-three, and his tanned face, 
reddened by the open air, bore no lines. It was a 
kindly sort of face—the face of one who took the 
best that life could give—took it with a certain 
sense of humor. His smile was friendly enough, 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 45 

yet I wondered why he had come up to the room. 
He soon informed me. 

“You see,” he half drawled, “when the chief 
told me what you said to him, I remembered all 
that I had read of your friend Bartley. In fact, 
I saw him once.” 

“You did?” I asked. 

He nodded. “Yes, one afternoon in Paris in 
nineteen-nineteen. I was having lunch in the 
Brassierier Lutatia, over in the Latin Quarter, and 
the captain I was with pointed him out; said he 
was something big in the secret service.” 

I informed him that perhaps he had seen Bart¬ 
ley, for he was in the secret service and in Paris 
in nineteen-nineteen. Both of us had eaten more 
than once at the restaurant he mentioned. Then 
I waited for him to give me an idea of why he had 
come in to see me. It turned out that his visit 
was not merely curiosity. Not only had he read 
Bartley’s famous work on poisons, but he had also 
read the newspaper accounts of several of our late 
cases. He had tried to convince the chief that it 
would be all right to let me go to a hotel, but the 
chief had insisted that he had only my word for 
who I was, and he was taking no chances. So he 
had run up to tell me there was at least some one 


46 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

in the small city who was friendly. Then came 
the startling thing. Lighting another cigarette, he 
said: “In fact I know you never killed Culver.” 

Of course I knew that myself; but in surprise of 
his positive statement, I asked: “How?” 

“Well, according to your story it must have been 
around ten when you went into the house. The 
storm broke about then. He had been dead over an 
hour; the body showed that.” 

I thought a moment. “That would make his 
murder take place around eight-thirty?” He nod¬ 
ded his assent. 

“Well,” I replied, “it so happens that at fifteen 
minutes to nine I stopped for gas at a crossroads 
garage about fifteen miles back, and asked how 
long it would take me to reach here. The garage 
man looked at his watch, said that it was almost 
nine, and that it would take about an hour, because 
of the long hills that I had to go over.” 

He grinned. “That lets you out all right.” 

For a while we talked rather languidly on many 
things, none of which were of much importance. I 
was not sleepy, and so I was glad there was some 
one to talk to. But I was curious regarding the 
man I had found dead, and I asked the doctor to 
tell me something about him. He was silent sev¬ 
eral moments after my request, and his brow wrin- 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 47 

kled, as if trying to decide just what to say. At 
length he answered: 

“The truth is, I know very little about him; no 
one in the town does, for that matter. He came 
here about a year ago and bought one of the old 
places of the town. Where he came from I don’t 
know. He seemed to have money enough, but he 
never went out anywhere. Spent most of his time in 
riding around the country, alone. He had a house¬ 
keeper, but he got rid of the one he had a while ago, 
and another came. He left town about six or seven 
weeks ago, and no one has seen him since—that is, 
not till you found him dead.” 

“Was there any family?” I questioned. 

“Only a niece,” was the answer, “and she was 
away at school. She came up here for a few weeks 
last summer, but he was away most of the time. 
He was her guardian, I think; in fact, she returned 
to town yesterday.” 

In answer to certain inquiries of mine regarding 
the family, he simply shook his head. He could 
not give me much information regarding the man 
I had found dead. He did laugh when he said he 
had the largest ears he had ever seen, with the long 
lobes that I had noticed; and I got a hint that per¬ 
haps the man had proved a bit quarrelsome in his 
dealings with the country people. 


48 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


For a while we talked back and forth. The doc¬ 
tor seemed more curious as to what the man might 
have been doing in the deserted house. He informed 
me the house had not been used for years, that the 
place had been boarded up at least five years before. 
Why the man should have gone there, why he should 
have been away for some weeks, and then return, as 
he did, he could not understand. 

I ventured a question: “Do you know if any one 
in the town saw him since his return?” 

He was silent a moment, very thoughtful; then he 
shook his head. “So far as I know,” came the an¬ 
swer, “no one knew where he went, or knew he had 
returned.” 

He paused, then added slowly: “But I had a 
strange experience to-night.” I waited for him to 
say what it was, and in a moment he went on: 
“About half past seven I was coming in the west end 
of town from a call when I saw this man Culver 
walking along the country road”—he paused a mo¬ 
ment—“at least, I thought it was he. Anyway, when 
I got up to him, I asked him if he wanted a ride; 
and what do you think he said?” 

I shook my head. 

The doctor made a little grimace. 

“He never said a word, never even looked up—in¬ 
stead, struck into a field near by.” 


49 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 

It seemed a curious thing, and I said as much. 

The doctor agreed. “Yes, it did; and I knew the 
chap, treated him once when he was sick. Now, of 
course, it was getting dark; there was a storm com¬ 
ing; and the light was not good. I was pretty sure it 
was Culver, but he said nothing, simply struck into 
the fields.” 

“Did you see his face?” I asked. 

He thought a moment. “Well, not exactly, but I 
am pretty sure it was he, all right, though he never 
turned my way or made any sign. I drove along, 
wondering why he did not speak—still, that was like 
him. He was a surly fellow at best, so I gave no 
thought to it, though I did wonder when he had re¬ 
turned to town, and why he was out in the country.” 

After that the conversation lagged a bit, and in a 
few moments the doctor said he had to go, and I es¬ 
corted him to the door. Closing the door, I listened 
to his footsteps echoing down the stairs; then I 
dropped into a chair to think over what he had told 
me. There was nothing much of interest except the 
last thing he had said; his meeting with Culver, and 
the man’s refusal to speak. That seemed strange, 
and it looked as if there were some mystery back of 
it, as if he had come back into town quietly and 
wished no one to know of his return. But why, of 
course, I did not know. While I undressed I gave 


50 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

a few wild guesses as to what it might mean. I was 
still thinking of it when I fell asleep. 

The sun was streaming into the room through the 
barred windows when I awoke in the morning. De¬ 
spite the unaccustomed surroundings, I had slept 
well—a dreamless sleep that in itself showed how 
tired I must have been. Dressing, I began to wonder 
about breakfast, for a glance at my watch showed 
that it was after eight. 

Just as I was brushing my hair, the door opened, 
and the heavy figure of the chief appeared. He 
looked solemn and glum, and his suit looked as if he 
had slept in it. For a second, as he glanced soberly 
at me, I wondered what he had been doing during 
the night, and if he had found any clews to the mys¬ 
tery. If he had, he gave me no information, for 
after a moment or so he said shortly: 

“Better come with me and have some breakfast.” 

Taking my assent for granted, he started from 
the room, and I followed him. We went down the 
passage, down the stairs and through a door which 
led into a dining room. He had taken me into his 
own home, and, as soon as we appeared a servant 
began to place the breakfast on the table, a table 
covered with a red-figured tablecloth. It was a 
typical country breakfast, heavy, yet wholesome, 
and there was even pie to finish up with. It had 


51 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 

been my impression that it was only along Cape Cod 
they had pie for breakfast, but I found that Vermont 
followed the same custom. Not being in the habit 
of eating pie, I turned it down and drank my coffee. 

All through the breakfast the chief had sat across 
the table, not eating or saying a word; instead, he 
smoked a villainous pipe, with a tobacco that was 
the strongest I had ever smelled. Every little while, 
as I looked at him, I would catch his sober face 
stealing a glance at me, but he said nothing—that 
was, until I had finished. Pushing my chair back, 
I wondered what was to come. 

I was naturally anxious. 

Even then he said nothing for a while. At last 
he took the black pipe from his lips, allowed the 
smoke to weave around his face, and suddenly said: 
“ ‘By my troth, my little body is a-weary of this 
great world.’ ” 

Shakespeare again, and it made me smile. The 
discouraged tone of his voice and the application of 
the quotation to a man that weighed about three 
hundred, was more than I could stand without smil¬ 
ing. Seeing the smile, the look of gloom on his 
face increased, and he said: 

“Young man, the doctor says you could not have 
killed that man.” He paused, added shortly: 
“Never thought you did.” 


52 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


That was comforting. Then suddenly, placing 
the pipe on the table, he took two cigars from his 
pocket and, after slowly turning them over and over 
in his hand, offered me one. But, suspicious of the 
brand, I suggested he try one of mine, which he ac¬ 
cepted, after first looking at it very carefully. 
Lighting it, he took one pull, then said: “Must be 
a ten-center.” 

I stifled a chuckle, for they were two of the im¬ 
ported brand that Bartley had had shipped to his 
order from Cuba. But I said nothing, and then all 
at once the chief grew confidential. He pulled his 
chair up to the table, brushed aside a plate or two, 
and leaned forward, speaking in a friendly, but 
dissatisfied tone: 

“Young man, it’s been an awful night. You 
know, I was elected chief because the good people 
of the town wanted some one to enforce the laws. 
I am a good church member, but I don’t know much 
about lawbreakers; never had many here except 
some booze runners. They knew I was honest and 
elected me to enforce the law honestly. But last 
night the sheriff and the county attorney and my¬ 
self were up all night trying to find out about that 
murder.” He made a gesture of impatience. 

“What do you think the sheriff wanted to know 
this morning?” Without waiting for a reply, he 


A NIGHT IN JAIL 53 

continued in a disgusted tone: “Asked me who 
killed that man Culver ?” 

He paused, his face getting angry; then, slamming 
his fist down on the table, he asked: “How do I 
know who killed him—how can I find out?” 

He looked at me as if expecting an answer, and 
I slowly shook my head. Then he went on. “Here 
am I, the chief, and, just as soon as I get the place, 
we go and have a murder—and there has not been 
one here for fifty years. Then they come around 
and ask me who did it, and why don’t I arrest 
some one?” 

Again he looked at me, then continued: “How 
can I arrest any one? I don’t know who did it.” 

His earnestness was so sincere, that I stifled back 
a little laugh. I could see the man was honest, 
but that the events of the past few hours had been 
too much for him. There had not been a murder 
in years, he said, and now with one to solve he was 
all at sea. He was silent a moment, then went on: 
“The doc told me all about that big detective you 
travel with. How does he find out who committed 
murders?” 

I told him I could give him no information on that 
score, for it was pretty hard to tell how Bartley per¬ 
formed his apparent miracles. I knew he would 
understand nothing of Bartley’s wide knowledge of 


54 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


science, his mastery of psychology, and his keen 
mind. And then I wondered if he had received any 
answer to my telegram. He shook his head, after 
I asked him, and rather silently went over to the 
window; then, returning in a moment, he said: 

“That’s not all. Some one last night tried to 
break into Culver’s house and did kill his dog.” 

“They did!” came my surprised voice. 

He nodded assent, but gave no further informa¬ 
tion, simply growling something about all the crime 
in the world breaking the same night. Then, taking 
his hat, he said: “Well, we got to go over to the 
inquest. It’s at the courthouse, and you will have 
to tell your story there.” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE INQUEST 

R EACHING the courthouse, where the in¬ 
quest was to be held, we found the street 
filled with automobiles parked close to the 
sidewalks. It was the typical New England court¬ 
house, with four great white pillars in front, a high 
tower, and the usual town clock, which struck nine 
just as we ascended the steps. There were several 
persons standing around the front of the building, 
on the steps and the sidewalks, and all paused in 
their conversation to throw a curious glance at me, 
as I walked up the steps. 

The courtroom was on the second floor, and we 
had difficulty in getting through the crowd that sur¬ 
rounded the door. Even when we got inside it was 
not much better, for the large room was packed till 
it could hold no more. Murders were not the usual 
thing, one could see, and it seemed as if every one 
had come out to hear the testimony at the inquest. 
Pushing our way through the crowd, we managed to 
get down to the front and passed the rail which 
marked the space set aside for the lawyers. Here 
55 


56 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


the chief found me a chair, then went up to the 
high bench, where the doctor was sitting. 

I half turned and looked at the crowd which al¬ 
ready filled the room to overflowing. People were 
even trying to get through the door, though the 
court officials were doing their best to keep them out. 
It was a rather mixed company. There seemed to 
be a great number of farmers, if one could judge by 
the wrinkled, unpressed clothes some wore; but most 
of the people were well dressed, and I even saw a 
minister seated in front. Curiosity had brought 
them out—that morbid streak in most people, which 
likes to hear of crime and sudden death. 

The doctor was seated behind the bench where 
the judge usually sat, and I remembered that he 
was the coroner. At a table near by were a group of 
men that I judged must be lawyers, though the 
large badge on the breast of one of them showed me 
he was the sheriff. They were talking with their 
heads close together—an animated conversation, 
though what it was about I could not hear. Over 
the room was the murmured hum of conversation 
and the coughing that one hears in a crowd. In 
fact, some must have been smoking, for the air 
was faintly filled with the odor of tobacco. I 
thought how typical it was of the lack of serious- 


57 


THE INQUEST 

ness in so many people, that these men—for there 
were few women present—were all apparently un¬ 
concerned over the fact that a townsman of theirs 
had met a sudden death. Suddenly the doctor 
rapped on the bench and said the inquest was open. 
The hum of conversation ceased in a second, and I 
could hear the people settle back on their benches. 
To them it was a show, and they were all ready to 
be amused or thrilled. 

And right away something happened that I did 
not expect. There was a dispute between the town 
solicitor and the county attorney, as to who had 
jurisdiction at the inquest. There seemed to be 
some question whether the crime had been com¬ 
mitted within the town limits or not; if it had been 
committed outside the limits of the town, it fell 
within the jurisdiction of the county. 

The town solicitor, a young fellow with a rather 
good face, made a little argument, and he was fol¬ 
lowed by a heavy, thickset man with a very red 
face and a very loud voice. The county attorney 
was so earnest in his plea that the crime had not been 
committed within the limits of the town that all at 
once I could see there was something behind it all. 
Then I remembered the chiefs statement about his 
election, by what he called the good people, and I 


58 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


understood at once that the old political ring must 
be that of the county officials. 

It seemed such a useless argument, of little 
value, but the crowd enjoyed it. They laughed at 
the rather heavy sarcasm of the county solicitor, 
and they applauded several things that were said. 
It seemed absurd to me; for, no matter where the 
crime was committed, in the end it would have to 
be the county attorney who presented any evidence 
to the grand jury. Finally, the dispute was settled 
by sending for a map of the town; and, when it had 
been brought in and studied, it was discovered that 
the house where the murdered man had been found 
was just inside the town limits. Yet forty-five 
minutes had been wasted in the foolish argument. 

They had the system of coroner’s jury in the 
State, and the twelve men were chosen and filed 
rather self-consciously, but at the same time rather 
pleased, into the jury box. After the oath they 
settled down in their chairs, with a very important 
air. I looked them over, half smiling, as I won¬ 
dered if I would care to have my life in their hands. 
They were twelve average men, but it was hard to 
find one of more than average intellect, so far as 
looks go, in the group. However, there they were, 
ready to hear the evidence. 

The chief was the first witness, and his face 


59 


THE INQUEST 

was flushed, as he climbed into the chair. He was 
embarrassed, I could see, and the perspiration was 
standing in little beads on his face. I could even 
see his hands shut tight, and he looked as if he was 
afraid. In a rather low voice he gave his testimony, 
searching for his words, as if he did not wish to 
make any mistake in what he said. He told of my 
coming to the police station and of the story I told 
him. Then came the description of our trip to the 
house and the finding of the dead man, whom he 
identified as James Culver. And to my surprise, 
that was about all he said. He did not mention 
detaining me as a witness, or having any suspicion 
that I knew anything about the crime. For 
all of which I was very thankful. The attorney and 
the coroner asked him only if he had known that 
Culver had returned to the town, and he simply 
said, “No.” That finished his testimony, and he 
stumbled down from the chair, with a relieved air 
on his face, wiping the perspiration from his brow. 

My name was called next, and, as I seated myself 
in the chair and took the oath to tell the truth, I 
heard whispers go around the room, every one lean¬ 
ing forward to take a look at me. I was a kranger, 
and evidently they wanted to hear my story. I 
settled back in the chair and, as I waited for the 
first question, took a glance around the room. And 


60 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

then suddenly, at the back of the courtroom, leaning 
against the door, I saw Bartley. 

The sight of his keen, intellectual face, the con¬ 
trast between his appearance and the rest of the 
people, was like a breath of sea air. I had been a 
bit troubled, but now all my cares were forgotten. 
There was an amused smile on his face, as he sig¬ 
naled a greeting to me—a smile that played around 
his lips and made his face very attractive. Though 
he must have traveled half the night to get here, yet 
his suit was as fresh as if he had never worn it be¬ 
fore, and his manner was as cool and unconcerned 
as ever. 

I was on the stand for a long while, longer than 
I had expected, and some of the questions fired at 
me made me a bit angry. The town solicitor was 
out for blood; evidently he wanted to make a good 
impression on the people present. He took me all 
through my story of the car stopping, of my going 
to the house for shelter, and of finding the body. 
But he overlooked something that might have been 
hard to explain; he did not ask how it was that the 
<car had started again after I ran from the house. 

All through the examination I could see that the 
people in the courtroom were regarding me some¬ 
what doubtfully. At several of my answers there 


THE INQUEST 61 

would come little whispers, and once or twice they 
laughed at some sally of the attorney. But I kept 
my head; I had been under examination of law¬ 
yers far better than the young man who faced me, 
and after a while I was permitted to take my seat. 

There seemed to be no way to reach Bartley, so 
I simply dropped into my chair by the lawyers* 
table and waited for what might come next. It 
proved to be the testimony of the doctor himself, 
whose story was short, but who did say that the 
man must have been killed around eight-thirty. 
The thing he did was to produce the knife by which 
the man had been killed and explain in rather tech¬ 
nical language the wound which, he said, had caused 
instant death. 

The knife was passed to the jury, and each one, 
as it went from hand to hand down the row of chairs, 
examined it. They gazed at it as if by looking 
they could tell who had committed the crime. The 
audience bent their necks this way and that, to 
get a better view, but I doubt if any of them suc¬ 
ceeded even in getting a glance at it. 

When the doctor went back to his seat, there 
came a pause, and then suddenly, after looking 
over some papers on the desk, he called: “Lorraine 
Sawyer.” There came a hum of interest from the 


62 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


crowded courtroom, as a door opened behind the 
judge's bench and a young woman appeared, going 
at once to the witness chair. 

It was a very beautiful young woman we saw, 
as she sat there, with her cheeks a little flushed from 
the excitement—a young woman of about twenty, 
with dark hair and a wonderful cream-and-red com¬ 
plexion. Though she must have been embarrassed, 
yet her dark eyes met those of the doctor clearly 
and gravely. I wondered who she was, for the 
suit she was wearing had never been bought in any 
country town. 

In a second I discovered. In answer to the first 
question after her name, she said that she was the 
niece of the dead man. She gave her testimony in 
a low, clear voice, never faltering for a word, nor 
hesitating for an answer. But it threw no light 
on the crime; in fact, it only deepened the mystery. 

She testified that Culver was her guardian—her 
mother’s brother. Her people had died some years 
before, and he was the only member of the family 
left. She had never seen him before he was ap¬ 
pointed guardian, and, in fact, she had only seen 
him three or four times since. That was partly due 
to the fact that she was attending a girls’ school in 
Washington. The previous summer she had been 
in the town for three days, but he was called away 


63 


THE INQUEST 

two days after she arrived. The last time she saw 
him was a few months before, and then only for 
about ten minutes, in Washington. She had re¬ 
ceived a letter from him some weeks ago, asking 
her to spend the summer with him, but saying he 
would not be there when she arrived. 

“You do not know where he was?” came the 
question. 

“No; I received a letter saying he was called away 
on a business trip, but would be back around the 
tenth.” 

Since it was now only the seventh of June, the 
tenth was still three days away, though the term 
“around the tenth” might have meant that he would 
return before. But it was here that she volunteered 
a bit of information. She hesitated after her 
answer, then said: 

“He wrote that his brother who had lived in 
England for some years was coming about then, and 
he wanted me to be here to meet him, in case he, 
himself, was delayed a few days.” 

“You never met his brother?” the attorney asked. 

“No; I think he spoke of him once, but I never 
met him.” 

The questioning along this line was dropped, and 
then there came a silence broken by the coroner, 
asking: “Do you know if he had any enemies?” 


64 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


The girl was silent for several moments, her eyes 
studying the tips of her shoes, then replied: “No; 
you see, I really knew very little about my uncle. ,, 

“Do you know what business he was in?” 

She half shook her head. “Since he became my 
guardian I don’t think he had any. I remember 
some years ago my mother said he was a broker, 
but where, I do not know.” 

This finished her testimony, and she stepped 
down to go out of the door from the room. Her 
testimony, as far as I could see, had thrown little 
light on the affair. She seemed to know no more 
about the man than I did, and that was nothing. 
But it struck me as rather queer that a niece should 
know no more about an uncle who was her guardian. 
Yet she was telling the truth; her whole appearance 
showed that. 

The next witness turned out to be the last, and 
there was a little stir of excitement as the coroner 
called the name: “The Reverend Joseph Sparrow.” 
Pushing through the crowded seats there appeared 
a little fat man with a full face. He was dressed in 
black, with a ministerial coat and a collar buttoned 
in the back. His whole attitude was very self-con¬ 
tained, that of one who at least realized his own 
importance. He took his seat in the witness chair, 
raised a soft, fat hand, as he took the oath, and then 


65 


THE INQUEST 

pulled off his glasses and polished them with a very 
white handkerchief. In answer to the question as to 
his name, he said in a very important voice: “The 
Reverend Joseph Sparrow, pastor of the First 
Methodist Church.” 

He said that he knew, as he put it, the deceased, 
but his tone was one that gave the impression he 
did not approve of him. Asked how well he knew 
him, he said very slightly, and then volunteered that 
the acquaintance had been regrettable. This 
seemed rather astonishing; the coroner looked at him 
rather blankly a moment and then asked what he 
meant. 

Again he polished his glasses and replied in a 
soft, sugary voice that he feared the deceased was 
a profane man of violent temper. Asked what he 
meant, he hesitated a second, then half blushed and 
said: 

“I visited the brother shortly after he came— 
ah—suggesting that he might wish to make a con¬ 
tribution to the repairs we were making on the 
church. But his manner was very disagreeable, not 
at all that which you would expect to be used toward 
a minister.” 

He paused, as if satisfied at the answer. But 
if he was satisfied, the coroner was not; for he 
rasped out: “What did he say?” 


66 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


The minister’s face flushed even a deeper red, and, 
as if in protest, he raised his flabby hand in the air, 
saying: “Do not, I beg you, ask me to repeat his 
profane words.” 

Every one in the courtroom seemed to be curious, 
and they were leaning forward, as the coroner asked:. 
“What did he say?” 

The minister’s face flushed, he started to speak, 
stammered something, then blundered out: “It’s 
really very disagreeable. I sent in my card, and I 
was ushered into his library, and he asked me what 

I wanted? I told him, and he said-” The 

voice trailed into silence. 

“What did he say?” came the question. 

His face red, in a voice very low, the minister 
stammered out: “He told me to get to hell out of 
his house.” 

A burst of laughter came from the crowded room, 
and I smiled, myself, more at the look on the wit¬ 
ness’s face than at anything else. It took several 
loud raps with the gavel to restore order, and even 
then there came a loud laugh from some one, as if 
the humor of it had just struck him. 

Order restored, the coroner asked: “Did you 
see him again?” 

“Oh, yes, on the street several times, and I think 
last night.” 



67 


THE INQUEST 

The last answer was unexpected. No one had 
testified on seeing the man in the town before the 
crime. I remembered the doctor had said he saw 
him, but he had not testified anything about it. 
Like a flash came the question: 

“Where did you see him?” 

Slowly, as though realizing the importance of 
the answer and pleased to be the center of the stage, 
the pompous voice boomed out: 

“Last evening I was returning from visiting a 
sister of the church, who is ill. I was entering the 
east portion of the town, when an automobile went 
past me. I am pretty sure the deceased was driving 
it.” 

I saw a startled look come over the doctor’s face; 
I remembered that he had said it was in the west 
end of the town he had spoken to the man, who had 
turned into the fields without answering. In a 
rather serious voice he asked: 

“What time did you see him?” 

The witness thought a moment, replying: “Let 
me see: I had supper with the sister and her hus¬ 
band; it must have been around seven-forty-five 
when the car passed me.” He paused, then added 
quickly: “Understand me, I only got a quick look 
at the man in the car, but I am pretty sure that it 
was Mr. Culver.” 


68 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

I studied the doctor’s face, as the man gave this 
answer. He had seen him in the opposite end of the 
town at the same time. Both could not be right, 
for he could not be in the two places at the same 
time. When the minister left the witness stand, 
which he did after this question, I half expected to 
see the doctor go back and tell his experience in 
seeing the dead man. But, to my surprise, he 
turned to his papers instead, looked them through, 
and then announced that the inquest was over, that 
there were no more witnesses. 

As the jury started to whisper among themselves, 
I sank back into my chair, puzzled. I had never 
been at a coroner’s inquest where less testimony 
had been brought out. All we knew was that the 
man had been murdered, but nothing else—not a 
thing more. For all that I could see the inquest 
had been useless. I turned and glanced back at 
Bartley, managing to catch his eye. There was a 
little smile on his lips, but he seemed puzzled, also. 
Turning, I glanced at the jury, who had not left 
the room, but were crowded together, whispering in 
an excited manner. There was only one verdict 
that could be given, I knew that, and it seemed 
hardly necessary to spend much time in arriving at 
it. 

Still, it was almost fifteen minutes before they 


69 


THE INQUEST 

seated themselves, and the foreman rose to his feet. 
The conversation that had been general in the room 
suddenly ceased, as all looked at the tall farmer who 
stood facing the coroner. 

In a loud voice he said: “We agree that James 
Culver was murdered, but we don’t know who by.” 
I started to smile at the odd way in which he had 
given the usual verdict, having omitted “person or 
persons unknown.” Then his next words caused 
my face to redden with anger. In a slow drawl he 
continued: “But we’re a bit suspicious of the story 
that man Pelt told, though we don’t think he did it.” 

It seemed to me that a murmur of approval went 
through the courtroom at the last words of the fore¬ 
man. They were unnecessary, and I had never 
heard of such an addition to a verdict. My face 
flushed, but, as I turned and found all eyes on me, 
I tried to appear unconcerned. It even seemed to 
me that there was a look of suspicion in the eyes 
that had coldly watched my every movement. The 
coroner’s voice broke in on my thoughts: 

“I will accept the verdict, but the last part of it 
will not be recorded.” 

With that he started to gather up his papers, and 
the jurymen stumbled out of their chairs and were 
excitedly talking with the spectators that crowded 
around them. I kept my chair for a moment, 


70 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


hardly knowing what to do. Suddenly I saw Bart¬ 
ley’s tall figure pressing through the groups of talk¬ 
ing men. He did not pause by my side, but went 
to the coroner, with whom he held a low conversa¬ 
tion. It was over in a moment, and he came at 
once to me. 

I rose to my feet with a rather sheepish grin. 
He half laughed, as he patted my shoulder, his hand 
resting there for a moment with a friendly pressure 

“Well, Pelt,” came the low, cultured voice, “I 
must say you certainly did yourself proud this time.” 

I shook my head slowly; there was nothing to 
say, and he laughed. “It’s not every day a man 
gets partly accused of committing murder.” 

Then, seeing that my feelings were a little hurt, 
he smiled again, saying, “Don’t worry; let’s be 
going.” 

“Going?” came my astonished voice. “Where?” 

“Why, Pelt; don’t you know that one of my best 
friends, and one of yours, has his summer place 
here? You have heard ‘Billy’ Thayer speak of 
Chester again and again. It’s where he retires 
every year to write his masterpieces. We are going 
to stay with him a few days.” 

All at once I gave a groan. Billy Thayer was the 
well-known novelist, and hardly a week passed in 
the winter that he did not drop into Bartley’s house 


71 


THE INQUEST 

in Gramercy Park. I had heard him speak of 
Chester again and again, and repeatedly he had 
urged us to spend a few weeks with him. But my 
excitement over finding the dead man had driven 
all thought of the name of the town from my mind. 
If I had only thought of it a few hours before, per¬ 
haps I might have been spared my night in the jail. 

I said nothing, as I followed Bartley through the 
crowd that still lingered, talking, in the courtroom. 
Many were the glances cast at me; and, though all 
conversation ceased, as I approached, it was quickly 
taken up when I passed. It was with relief I 
reached the street and climbed into Bartley’s English 
runabout. 

He seemed to know where to go, for he asked no 
directions of any one. As we were running down 
the main street, I asked him how it was he had 
reached Chester so soon. 

“I left,” he grinned, “as soon as I got your cry 
for aid. I think I broke all speed records during 
the night, but I got here in time for the inquest.” 

We had reached the outskirts of the town, and I 
saw that there were many summer estates surround¬ 
ing it. In the distance the mountains, their tree- 
covered sides looking cool and fresh, circled us. 
Great trees arched the road we drove over, and 
large white houses set in green lawns were on each 


72 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


side. As we passed, I got a glimpse of children 
playing under the trees. Suddenly I asked the 
question I wanted Bartley to answer: 

“What do you think of that inquest?” 

There was silence a moment, then the reply: 

“Well, Pelt, there were a good many things about 
it that struck me as strange. I never heard less 
evidence, less light on a crime, than this morning. 
No one seemed to know anything about the mur¬ 
dered man.” 

We had turned up a driveway that led to a white 
house set several hundred yards from the road—a 
house hidden partly by great elm trees, with a closely 
cropped lawn running to its veranda. Before we 
reached it, Bartley, with a mocking smile, turned to 
ask: “Where did you spend last night, Pelt?” 

“In jail,” came my mournful answer. 

He threw back his head and laughed, and, seeing 
my face, laughed again. Just as we stopped before 
the house, he said: “There is another thing that 
made this inquest very remarkable.” 

I stole a look at his face—a serious face, though 
his eyes were dancing. Not sure of his answer, 
I asked doubtfully: “What was that?” 

He brought the car to a stop, and for a second 
watched a man run down the steps toward us. 
Then in a serious tone he answered: “It’s the first 


73 


THE INQUEST 

time I ever was at an inquest where my closest 
friend was practically accused of knowing who com¬ 
mitted the crime.” 

And with that he turned to greet his friend, 
Thayer, who had reached the side of the car. 


CHAPTER V 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 


C ERTAINLY Thayer did not look like a 
novelist, though I really do not know just 
how a novelist ought to look. His short 
figure and the fat, round face, burnt a brick-red 
by his outdoor life, caused most people, when they 
first saw him, to think he was a gentleman farmer. 
In that idea they were partly right, for he spent 
most of the year on his place in Vermont, living 
outdoors every moment he could spare. The queer 
thing to me was the fact that upon his two acres 
of land, in sight of the Green Mountains, he wrote 
his wonderful sea stories that had made him famous. 
During the winters that he spent in the city he had 
been a Saturday-night visitor in Bartley’s library. 

He gave us little time to look around his house, 
for lunch was waiting, and in a few moments we 
were in the dining room. Through the open window 
by my chair I could look down across a long expanse 
of fields, green under the June sun, to the mountains 
that stood only a few miles away. The hills were 
not high, but the regularity of their tree-covered sky- 
74 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 75 

line made a soothing picture, with a touch of beauty 
that much higher mountains lacked. 

Lunch over, we went out for a smoke on the wide 
veranda, shaded by the great elm trees of the lawn. 
We sat silent, and it was Bartley who broke the 
stillness by asking: 

“What are you writing about now, Thayer?” 

His friend gave a little laugh. “You will be 
surprised if I tell you I have been trying to dope 
out a mystery story. Want to give me some help?” 

Bartley chuckled, adding that mystery stories 
were a bit out of Thayer’s usual line. He agreed 
to this, but said: “I have been reading for several 
years the various reviews the critics have given 
mystery stories. They have a lot of fun with them 
—that is, most of them. Out of curiosity I started 
to read some of the yarns that were reviewed. I 
found most of them were better written than the 
critics gave credit for, and the average writer of mys¬ 
tery stories was putting in as good a piece of work 
as any other kind of a writer—but most of them 
never got any credit for it.” 

Bartley laughed. “That may be so; our friend, 
Pelt, you know, wrote one a while ago. He told 
the story of one of my cases, and he bored me to 
death while writing it. He rewrote the darned 
thing five times, used a good bit of our newer 


76 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


psychology, solved the mystery in a way never be* 
fore used in such a yarn—and then what do you 
think the critics said?” 

Thayer shook his head, and with a grin at me 
Bartley continued: “Well, they solemnly wrote 
that the book had never been revised, never men¬ 
tioned the one odd thing that solved the mystery, 
and overlooked every bit of real work he put into it.” 

Thayer straightened up, with a look of serious¬ 
ness on his face. “That’s what I found in those I 
read,” he said. “Then I decided to try my hand 

at one just for the fun of the thing, but-” 

Here he shook his head sadly. 

“What?” I asked. 

He laughed. “Well, I found it was a harder 
thing than I had thought. It was a different kind 
of writing than I had ever done. The thing had 
to be logical, like a problem in logic. It had to be 
reasonable, no hidden passages, no secret stairways, 
no missing wills, and the like. Then it had to be 
swiftly moving, and every single thread pulled up 
at the end. I discovered also after a while that 
there were hardly any new situations, only a new 
twist could be given—that murders were mostly 
alike.” 

He paused, and Bartley took up his thought: 
“That’s all true; murder itself is almost always the 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 77 

same, but every case is different. Take the one 
last night.” 

“You mean my next-door neighbor?” interrupted 
Thayer. 

It was the first I knew that the murdered man 
had lived next door to Thayer. Instinctively my 
glance traveled across the lawn to the house that 
I could see through the trees, a few hundred yards 
away. It was a dark-brown house, partly hidden 
by the trees in front. The house sat several hun¬ 
dred feet from the road, and a high iron fence sur¬ 
rounded it. I noticed the lawn was not kept up, 
the grass being high, and several flower gardens 
were filled with weeds. There seemed to be a 
dilapidated look about it. 

Observing my glance, Thayer said: “Yes, that’s 
where Culver lived. I heard this morning that he 
had been found murdered in an old house about a 
mile from the village.” 

“Is that all you heard?” questioned Bartley. 

“No, they say that some young fellow came into 
the police station with a wild yarn about finding the 
body, and that it is thought he was the murderer.” 

Bartley gave me a look that caused my face to 
flush, and at my expression he laughed. Then he 
turned to Thayer and told him I was the person 
who had found the body. There was an amazed 


78 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


look on the writer’s face, as he listened, and nothing 
would do but that I should tell in full detail all that 
had happened to me. When I finished, Thayer was 
silent for a moment and lighted a fresh cigar before 
he spoke. 

His cigar going well, he said: “You know, Culver 
lived in the next house, but I knew little about him. 
He came to the town about two years ago, and it 
was very rarely that any one saw him on the street. 
He had a niece who came up once or twice from 
school. I think they said he was her guardian. 
But none of us here knew him.” He paused to 
add: “Funny thing he should be killed; no one 
even knew he was back. He had been away some¬ 
where for the last six or seven weeks.” 

Suddenly Bartley remarked: “Thayer, you want 
the plot of a mystery story. Here it is, right on 
your doorstep.” 

The writer looked at him as though he did not 
just see what he was driving at. 

Bartley continued: “The first situation, namely, 
the finding of the dead body in a house no one 
lived in, is old and has been used in detective 
stories. The rich man who comes to a small village 
and lives the life of a recluse, is not uncommon in 
fiction. If you want a plot, here is one for you, 
and this time it is a real murder you have to solve.” 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 


79 


Thayer shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the 
trouble,” he said, “it’s true.” 

“Well, truth is a stranger thing than fiction,” 
was Bartley’s answer. “You writers have to stick 
to probabilities; the truth never does.” 

Thayer started to answer, when suddenly we 
heard the telephone ring, and, excusing himself, he 
rose and went into the house. He returned in a 
moment, saying in a half-surprised tone that the 
call was for Bartley. Rather mystified, I watched 
Bartley go into the house. It was some time before 
he returned, and then he walked to the edge of the 
veranda without speaking. 

When he turned, he said: “Thayer, the chief 
of your police has asked me if I would go up to the 
house where they found Culver’s body and look the 
place over. A county detective is going with him. 
Inasmuch as Pelt has got mixed up in this thing, I 
feel that I ought to aid in clearing him of any sus¬ 
picion. After the fool verdict that coroner’s jury 
gave, there are many people who will think he knows 
something about it. So I told the chief I would 
go. How would you like to drive up with me?” 
He paused a moment and drawled: “It might 
give you some color for your mystery story.” 

Bartley’s remark had relieved my mind of the 
one thing that had been troubling me. I knew 


80 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


that, unless they found the murderer, there would 
always be a suspicion in the minds of some people 
that I knew something about the crime. Though I 
was surprised at the chief’s invitation to him, yet 
I was very glad that he had accepted it. Even 
Thayer seemed very keen, as he put it, “to get 
mixed up in a murder.” In a few seconds we were 
in Bartley’s car, and a moment later out on the 
road. There was little said during the ride, and it 
was only a short time before we stopped in front 
of the police station. 

As we entered the door, I flushed under the glances 
that were cast at me by the three men who were 
in the room. Back of the desk sat an officer, who 
told us the chief was in the rear room. A knock 
on the closed door was followed by the command 
to come in. Pushing open the door, we entered. 
The chief rose from his chair to greet us, and it was 
with a very solemn air that he turned to me. I 
introduced him to Bartley, but he did not need an in¬ 
troduction to Thayer. There was another man pres¬ 
ent, smoking a vile cigar, whose smoke hung heavy 
over the small room. He was tall and very thin, and 
he reminded me somewhat of the pictures of under¬ 
takers that one sees in the humorous magazines. 
His name turned out to be Kelly, and he was the 
local detective. 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 


81 


The chief bore a half-apologetic air toward me* 
explaining that he had discovered that what I had 
said about Bartley and my connection with him 
was true. But, as he said to Bartley, “What could 
you do, when a man you never knew came in and 
told you there was a murdered man not a mile 
away? I had to keep my eyes on him.” 

Bartley agreed with this, laughing; and then for 
a few moments they talked together. The contrast 
between the keen, intellectual face of Bartley and the 
heavy features of the chief was very striking. As 
I glanced at the chief, I doubted if he would ever 
be able to solve the crime. But for some reason 
he was paying great respect to Bartley, listening 
eagerly to what he might say, but saying little him¬ 
self. 

It was Bartley himself who suggested that they 
might as well start for the house where the crime 
had been committed; a proposal the chief greeted by 
reaching for his hat, which was on the desk. 

There was another machine in front of the station, 
into which the chief and his detective entered, and 
in a moment we were following them down the 
street. As we retraced my route of the night be¬ 
fore, I saw that the town was much larger than I 
had thought. Like all New England small cities, 
there were a great many trees, and the streets ran 


82 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


under a green canopy of arching branches. The 
houses were set back from the sidewalks, with large 
lawns in which were gardens, bright with many- 
colored flowers. Though there was a certain sleepy 
air about the town, yet there was also an appearance 
of wealth and a certain air of refinement. 

We soon left the town and began to climb up the 
long hill. The woods ran almost down to the town 
limits and started at the very side of the road: 
thick, heavy woods, with underbrush piled in dis¬ 
orderly manner around the trunks of the trees and a 
high growth of bushes. Even in the daytime the 
woods would prove difficult to get through, and at 
night they would be almost impassable. 

The first cleared space turned out to be several 
fields. As our cars stopped in front of the house, I 
saw Bartley give it a careful look. In the light of 
the bright sunshine the place looked more forlorn 
than ever. It stood about fifty feet back from the 
road, and the yard was littered by the broken 
branches of trees, with the grass high and unkempt. 
The house itself, perhaps, had once been painted, but 
the paint was worn off, and boards were missing in 
several places. There were two chimneys, but the 
top bricks had been blown off by storms, and both 
were far out of plumb. The windows were still 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 83 

boarded, and the whole place had an abandoned 
appearance. 

Behind the house was a barn, in worse condition 
even than the house. The barn door was half gone, 
and great gaps, with the boards missing, allowed one 
to see the dark interior, where I saw the ruins of a 
carriage. A smaller building, a storehouse of some 
kind, stood between the barn and the house, but it 
also was in sad need of repair. 

Silently we followed the chief up the walk, and I 
gave a shudder, as I thought of my experience of the 
night before. The house was gloomy enough in the 
daylight, but it had been much worse in the dark. 
From all appearances it did not seem as if any one 
had lived there for years. In fact, in answer to a 
question of Bartley’s, the chief replied that it had 
been deserted for at least eight years, and he had no 
idea who owned the place now. 

The door, which had been found open when I 
went on the piazza for shelter, was now closed, but 
the chief produced the key and opened it. We all 
stood silent a moment, peering into the hall; then, 
with the chief in the lead, we entered. As we came 
to the open door of the room where the man had been 
found, Bartley suggested that it might be a good 
thing to rip the boards off one of the windows to let 


84 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


in some sunlight. Kelly, without a word, went out¬ 
side to do this. 

The room was of course dark, because the three 
windows were boarded, and we waited several mo¬ 
ments, while Kelly pulled off the boards nailed 
across the largest window. As they fell away, the 
sunlight for the first time in years streamed into 
the musty room. Going over to the window Bart¬ 
ley raised it; then he returned to the door. For a 
second he stood glancing around the room. 

I had been able to gain only a brief look at its 
contents the night before. The furniture was old, 
and dust covered the chairs and the table, which 
were in the center. The pictures were old 
steel engravings, their frames faded with age and the 
glass streaked and dirty. A large gilt mirror hung 
over the mantel, and the gilt was black and worn off 
in spots. And again I noticed that the glass of the 
mirror was shattered, as by a blow. For a moment 
Bartley stood, taking it all in; then he turned and 
asked where the body had been found. 

Both the chief and myself pointed out the position. 
It had lain only several feet from the door, facing 
the mantel. We explained the position, then told 
of the knife between the shoulderblades and the fact 
that a revolver had been found in the hand. He 
listened silently, turning to glance at the door from 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 


85 


the hall, then back at the mirror. Suddenly he 
went over to the old square piano that stood in a 
corner and called us in a second to his side. As 
we crowded around him, he pointed to a half-used 
candle which stood on an old book. 

“That explains at least one thing,” he said. “I 
wondered just how any one would have been able to 
see in this room. There are no electric lights that 
could be turned on, and there is no sign of a lamp. 
Whoever was in the room last night had to see.” 

“It was dark when I came in,” I ventured, “not 
the slightest sign of a candle.” 

He paid no attention to my remark, but turned 
to the chief. “Did Culver know his way about 
this house?” 

The chief looked puzzled and turned to his tall 
detective, who quickly replied: “So far as I know, 
or can find out, Culver never was in the house. 
It’s been boarded up for five years. I don’t think 
Culver ever was up this road. Don’t know, of 
course, but he hardly ever was seen on the streets of 
the town.” 

Bartley gave a little shrug of his shoulders, 
turned and glanced at the door; then he walked 
over to the mirror and examined it a moment. Turn¬ 
ing to us, he explained: “I was trying to picture 
what happened last night, and I think I know.” 


86 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

“You do?” broke from the surprised lips of the 
chief. 

“Yes; there seems to be only one thing which 
could have taken place. Culver was standing near 
the door—let me say that likely he came into the 
hall, came carefully and rather suspiciously. He 
came to the open door and looked into this room. 
There was a light here—the candle. Suspicious, he 
held his gun in his hand.” 

Thayer broke in: “How do you get that, John?” 

“Because of this,” was the answer, as Bartley 
opened his hand for us to see an object that was in 
his palm. We bent lower to look. There in his 
hand was a bullet. For a moment we all looked, 
and there was a wondering expression on the chief’s 
face, as he waited for the explanation. 

“You see the broken mirror,” said Bartley. “The 
glass is shattered in the corner, and this is what did 
it. I have no doubt you will find it fits the gun 
which was found in the dead man’s hand. If so, 
that shows us at least one thing.” 

“What’s that?” asked Kelly. 

“I said that Culver stood looking into the room, 
his gun in his hand. He was suspicious; if not, 
why should he be holding his gun? He looked into 
the room; the light showed it was empty; then he 
stepped within, but I think he was still suspicious. 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 87 

Suddenly, as he stood there, he saw the murderer, the 
knife in his hand, and fired, smashing the mirror.” 

“But why should he smash the mirror, if he saw 
the man who killed him?” came Thayer’s question. 

“Because,” came the answer, “what he saw was 
the figure of the man in the mirror. You notice 
the mirror is directly facing the door from the hall. 
Culver was standing two feet from the door; behind 
him, silently creeping up on him, was the murderer. 
Shall we say that suddenly Culver raised his eyes 
and saw that figure in the mirror? Remember, the 
room was only dimly lighted; he could not see 
plainly. Without a moment to think, instinctively 
he fired—fired at the figure, only to smash the mir¬ 
ror. The knife was buried in his shoulders at 
almost the same time the shot rang out.” 

I saw Thayer give a shudder, as he turned and 
looked gravely at the door and then back at the 
mirror; I was not surprised at what Bartley had 
said, for I had figured myself that it had been a shot 
that had broken the glass. But I saw a rather 
doubting look on the face of the chief. He glanced 
soberly at the mirror and slowly shook his head. 
Seeing his gesture, Bartley added: 

“The bullet I took out of the wooden frame of 
the mirror. You can very easily prove that any one 
entering this room from the hall will have his figure 


88 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

reflected in the glass. I noticed it as soon as the 
boards were knocked from the window. If I am 
right, it would suggest something else.” 

“What’s that?” came the eager question of the 
detective. 

Bartley was silent for a moment before he spoke, 
and then he said slowly: “You must understand 
this is simply theory. But we have to start with 
some kind of a theory, and it seems reasonable. 
You have said, Kelly, that you doubt if Culver 
ever was in this house before his death and-” 

The man broke in on him: “I don’t know for 
sure, but I doubt it. This place has been boarded 
up, and then, as I said, Culver hardly ever left his 
own place.” 

“Well,” continued Bartley, “if that is so, then 
we can suppose that Culver had an appointment 
with some one here. The place was picked out be- 
cause there was no chance of any one seeing or 
knowing about it. He was suspicious; he carried 
a gun, and when he entered the house he had it in 
his hand. Evidently he did not trust the person 
he was to see. Reaching the house, he saw no one. 
He entered, came along the hall, stopped at this 
room where he saw the light. Still he had seen no 
one.” 



BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 


89 


“How do you make that out?” Thayer inquired. 

“He was struck down from behind. I doubt 
very much if he saw the murderer till he observed 
him in the mirror. Yet it must have been some one 
that he knew.” 

“Mr. Bartley,” came Kelly’s eager voice, “that 
dope is all good, but we might suppose he was going 
to meet some one he knew, and it was all a blind 
to get him.” 

Bartley nodded in agreement. “That is true, 
Kelly. At least, when he came here, he thought he 
was going to see some one he knew. He would not 
come up to this lonely spot under any other circum¬ 
stance. I think his first sight of the murderer was 
in the mirror, when he suddenly fired. He must 
have done that because he saw the murderer with 
upraised arm, knife in hand, as he stood behind 
him.” 

He paused a moment, then said soberly: “But 
that does not answer any of the other questions— 
why Culver came here, why he was murdered, and 
by whom?” 

Suddenly in a low voice the chief quoted: 

“Let’s further think of this— 

Weigh what convenience, both time and means, 

May fit us to our shape.” 


90 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


Then he became silent. 

Bartley threw him a startled look, as though he 
could not believe his ears. Then I saw a faint 
smile come over his lips. I had not informed him 
of the chief’s propensity for quoting Shakespeare, 
and the quotation must have been rather a surprise. 
But after a glance at the serious face of the chief, 
Bartley managed to keep back his smile. 

A rather long examination of the room did not 
reveal anything of interest. Bartley in the end 
came back to the door and stood for a moment 
glancing at the floor. Suddenly I saw him stoop 
down to pick up a small piece of paper that was 
half hidden under a rug. Glancing at it, but with¬ 
out showing it to any of us, he placed it in his 
pocket. 

From the parlor we went to the other rooms. 
They were dark, because the windows were boarded 
up, but a flash light sweeping every inch showed that 
nothing had been disturbed. One room was locked, 
and there came some little argument between the 
chief and Kelly as to whether they should break 
open the door. But, after a careful examination 
of the lock, Bartley informed them that the dirt 
and dust which filled the keyhole showed that no 
one had tried to enter the room. 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 


91 


In the kitchen nothing was discovered till Bart¬ 
ley tried the door that led outside. It swung open 
to the touch. He turned to the chief. “Did you 
try this door last night?” 

The chief nodded. “Yes, it was unlocked.” 

Whatever the information might have suggested 
to Bartley, he did not inform us. Later he went 
from the kitchen out into the hall and up to the 
second floor. The three rooms that were locked 
showed no signs of being disturbed, the keyholes 
being filled with dust and dirt. And the one room 
that was open revealed nothing of importance. 

Thayer had watched Bartley with great interest, 
and as we came down the stairs and out into the 
hall, he whispered to me: “I don’t think he found 
a thing, do you?” 

I shook my head in agreement. So far as I could 
see, there was not the slightest kind of a clew, and 
Bartley had discovered nothing that I had not known 
the night before. As we came out into the bright 
sunlight, and he turned and glanced back at the 
hall, I saw a puzzled look on his face. But he could 
not be more puzzled than the chief and his detective. 
What they had expected Bartley would find, I could 
not tell. But I was sure they had hoped that he 
would be able to find some clew which they had over- 


92 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


looked. And, so far as I could see, the visit to the 
house had resulted in nothing. 

As Kelly locked the door, and we started down the 
steps to the yard, Bartley asked: “Did you find 
anything in the man’s pockets?” 

The tall detective shook his head, replying: 
“No, Mr. Bartley—that is, hardly anything. There 
was a bill fold, but no money in it, simply a letter 
and three or four cards with Culver’s name on them. 
But we did not need the cards to identify him. 
His nose and the big ears and bushy hair gave him 
away.” 

Bartley made no reply, and we started for our 
cars. At the battered fence the chief drew him 
aside, speaking in a low voice, but rather eagerly. 
I could see Bartley nod several times in agree¬ 
ment, yet I could not hear what the conversation was 
about. The chief got into the car which Kelly had 
turned around while he was talking, and they started 
down the hill, as we climbed into ours. 

For a moment after we seated ourselves, Bartley 
was silent. Then he turned to his friend to remark: 
“You wanted a good plot, Thayer. Here it is. 
You could not ask for a better start for a mystery 
story. All you have to do is to solve the mystery.” 

“Yes,” grunted the writer. “All—that’s enough.” 


BARTLEY TAKES THE CASE 93 

Bartley nodded; and then, just as he was reaching 
to turn on the gas, suddenly gave a start. He 
turned to us with a half-sheepish look. 

“By George, there is one thing I overlooked.” 
And he started to climb out of the car. 


CHAPTER VI 


KELLY MAKES AN ARREST 

W E followed Bartley back into the yard, 
up the path that led to the house. On 
the edge of the piazza he seated him¬ 
self and, taking his cigar case from his pocket, 
offered us each a smoke. He said nothing until he 
had lighted the long thin cigar; then he turned to 
Thayer. With a wave of his hand, one that included 
the whole landscape, he asked: “What does all this 
suggest to you, Billy?” 

Thayer looked at him a bit puzzled. Before us 
under the warm sun the woods stretched down to 
the city, about a mile away. Miles across, on the 
other side of the valley, were the hills, silent and 
peaceful, a solid mass of green. The yard in front 
of us was filled with weeds, and yet the daisies, 
white splotches of color in the tall grass, outnum¬ 
bered them. In the farther end of the yard 
were a few decayed apple trees that would never 
bear any fruit. A broken stone wall separated the 
yard from the next field. Beyond this field the 
woods started. 


94 


KELLY MAKES AN ARREST 


95 


Evidently Thayer thought Bartley’s question re¬ 
ferred to the condition of the small farm, for he 
simply grunted back: “It’s in a damnable state.” 

Bartley laughed at the answer, then became 
serious. “I don’t mean that, Thayer, but the crime 
that took place here. You are a writer of fiction, 
and your imagination ought to be working well. 
What do you think about it all?” 

Thayer was silent a moment, turning to give the 
house and the barn a long look, as if he expected to 
find something; then he replied: “I don’t know, 
John. It struck me, when we were in this house, 
that it was just the place for a murder. But why 
did Culver ever come up here? I got to thinking, 
as you spoke, perhaps he had a secret appointment; 
but, if so, the person who asked him to come here 
must have known the house pretty well. Perhaps 
they had a quarrel ” 

“There was no quarrel,” came Bartley’s quick 
reply. “If ever a murder was premeditated, this 
one was.” 

“Why are you so sure of that?” came the question. 

“Because,” he answered, “of several things. I 
told you how I thought the man was killed—by the 
murderer creeping up behind and suddenly stab¬ 
bing him. I don’t think that Culver, when he got 
into the house, ever saw the person he came to 


96 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


meet until he saw his dim reflection in the mirror. 
Now, if that is so, then he was brought to the house 
to be killed. He was a bit suspicious; the gun 
in his hand showed that. And yet, here is the 
question: if so suspicious, then why did he come 
to this lonesome spot?—for he must have known 
the person he was going to see.” 

Thayer nodded his agreement with this, say¬ 
ing slowly: “How did the murderer get away, and 
—oh, lots of things?” 

Bartley rose to his feet, throwing his cigar in the 
grass. “That’s what I came back for,” he answered. 
“I wondered if the murderer used a car to get away 
with, where he was when Culver got to the house, 
and how he got here? Then it dawned on me that 
we had failed to look at the barn and other 
buildings.” 

With that he started around the house to the 
decaying barn. The remnant of a carriage, the 
wheels broken, with one wheel off, was in the build¬ 
ing, and that was all. Then he passed on to the 
shed, but that contained nothing of interest. Back 
of the barn a rail fence separated the yard from a 
field of grass—a field that stretched away to another 
field, where the woods started. He stood a moment 
glancing rather soberly at the grass, which was 
waving under the slight breeze; then he climbed 


KELLY MAKES AN ARREST 


97 


over the fence and, with a sign to us to follow, 
started through the field. He went rather slowly, 
reached the fence at the other side—a fence broken 
and half down—climbed over into the second field, 
and in a moment had reached the wall by the road. 

We were standing where there had been some 
kind of a path—one that led from the road into the 
field. The bars which once formed a gate were 
lying on the ground, broken and decayed, and the 
tall, thick grass had grown over the path. It was 
here that Bartley stood for a moment, going in the 
end to the road before he returned to our side. 

Pointing to several tracks in the dirt and to places 
where the grass was broken and matted, he said: 
“There was a car in here last night.” 

From where we stood we could see the tracks 
where a car had driven in from the road, sinking 
a little into the mud. The grass for a few yards was 
pressed down, as though some heavy object had run 
over it. There seemed to be no doubt that a car 
had been in the field at some time, not many hours 
before. But whose? That was the question. 

As though reading the question in my mind, Bart¬ 
ley said: “You remember, Pelt, the minister at 
the inquest this morning told of seeing Culver in a 
car last evening. It may be he drove up here, ran 
the car into the field where it would not be seen 


98 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


from the road, and then went to the house. There 
was a car here last night, the marks of the tires are 
in the dirt, and it was a small car.” 

“But,” suggested Thayer, “if Culver did that, then 
the other man, the one that killed him, must have 
known the car was here and drove away in it later.” 

Bartley’s brow knitted at this, and he glanced 
moodily at the road. “That is true, Thayer; he 
must have known it was here. If it was Culver’s 
car that was in here, he certainly never drove it 
away—he was dead.” 

He spent some time searching in the high grass, 
as if hoping he would find something, but with no 
result. After a little while he walked down the road 
to the house and climbed into the car. It was 
getting toward dusk when we reached Thayer’s 
house, and, after leading us into his library, he 
excused himself for a while. It was a large room, 
and the setting sun was streaming through the wide 
windows. Upon the walls were scores of prints 
and etchings, many of them several hundred years 
old. The built-in bookcases lined all sides of the 
room, the dark-red and blue covers of the books 
making a pleasing color scheme. 

Bartley was in his element in a library. He 
went from case to case, pausing for a while to finger 
lovingly some particular book, then passing to the 


KELLY MAKES AN ARREST 


99 


next. The books ran mostly to the unusual in type. 
Science, anthropology, book after book of myths 
and folk lore, filled one side of the room. The cases 
on the other side were filled to overflowing with 
volumes of memoirs and history. There was very 
little fiction, and that mostly European. One could 
tell that it was the library of a literary man, though 
one might be surprised to know that the owner was 
the best writer of sea stories we had. 

Bartley at last finished his examination of the 
books and stood thoughtfully looking at the prints. 
Directly in front of him was a rare etching of Sophie 
Amould, that one which gives the sad and wistful 
expression to her beauty. For a while he studied it, 
and I could tell he was thinking of the story of her 
life. Turning to me he said thoughtfully: “She 
was called the wittiest woman of her day; unmoral, 
as they all were then. There must have been a 
wonderful charm about her that made her one of the 
best-known women of her time—unmoral, beautiful, 
witty, and with the heart of a child. You read the 
story of her age in her life.” 

“I presume every man who has seen that picture 
and knows her story wishes he had known her,” 
came the voice of Thayer, who had come into the 
room in time to hear Bartley’s remark. 

Bartley nodded to this; then, seating ourselves, 


100 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


Thayer and his friend entered into a long conversa¬ 
tion, mostly about the eighteenth century literature 
of France, a subject in which both were very much 
at home. I listened for a time, smiling at several 
of the stories of that day which Bartley retold. 
After a while I rose and strolled out on the piazza. 
Finding an easy-chair I lighted a cigar and sank 
back to run over in my mind the details of the crime. 

The more I thought of it the more puzzled I 
became. The first point was, of course, that Culver 
had been murdered: no one knew by whom, or 
what the reason might be. There had been hardly 
any money found on his person, so robbery might 
have been the motive. But here, again, I became 
bewildered. Why should Culver have gone to the 
old house, and what had drawn him there? Had 
there been an agreed meeting, the old house chosen 
because it was never used? Then again, where 
did they get the key? Kelly had said the key was 
found in the front door. If the murder had been 
committed by only one man, than either he or Cul¬ 
ver must have had the key. I made a mental note 
that I would attempt to discover the owner of the 
house. As far as I knew, not a single clew of any 
kind had been found. This was my conclusion, un¬ 
less the chief himself had found something. But, 
remembering the chief, I doubted it. 


KELLY MAKES AN ARREST 101 


I decided that it was about as mysterious a mur¬ 
der as I had ever known of. Another and far more 
disturbing thought came over me. I flushed a 
little, remembering the concluding words of the 
coroner’s jury. Yet, if the murderer was not dis¬ 
covered and that quickly, then more and more would 
I come under suspicion. Public opinion never 
needed much to go on at any time; I knew that; 
and, unless something was done to solve the mystery, 
then there would be a good many people who would 
suggest that I knew more than I had told. And I 
had no reason to think that the crime would be 
solved very soon. 

I was engaged in these moody thoughts when 
Bartley came on the piazza to tell me it was time 
to wash for dinner. Remarking about my somber 
face, I told him of what I had been thinking. He 
admitted there would be people who would have a 
suspicion of the story I had told, but, as we entered 
the house, he placed his hand on my shoulder, tell¬ 
ing me not to worry, as he would endeavor to aid 
the police to the extent of at least showing that I 
knew nothing of the crime. 

We had dinner in an inclosed breakfast room. 
From my seat I could look down across the fields to 
the mountains a few miles away. Under the grow¬ 
ing dusk they seemed to have become larger, with 


102 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


darker shadows hovering over them. The air was 
still, and from some spot not far away there floated 
to my ears the cries of children at play. A road 
stretched, a streak of brown, through the fields, till 
it vanished over the top of a distant hill. The 
whole scene was restful, and I could well understand 
why Thayer said it was the only place where he was 
able to write. 

Dinner over, we went out on the veranda and 
sank into chairs for the after-dinner smoke. For 
a while no one spoke, and it was Thayer who first 
broke the silence. He took his cigar from his lips, 
blew a large smoke ring which he watched seriously 
a moment, then turned to Bartley. 

“John,” he said, “I have been thinking of this 
crime. It strikes me that whoever did it covered up 
his tracks well. That he left no clew of any kind 
seems to show he was pretty clever.” 

“Well,” came back Bartley’s answer, “that de¬ 
pends. There is an old Italian proverb that says, 
‘The devil shows how to make the cup, but not the 
cover.’ That applies to crime. Murderers are 
never satisfied with what they do. They always 
do something with such marked singularity that it 
attracts attention. Often it is shown by the excess 
of precaution that is taken. Now, there is no doubt 
this crime was very carefully planned.” 


KELLY MAKES AN ARREST 103 

“How do you make that out?” came Thayer’s 
question. 

“Because,” was the reply, “of the place where it 
was committed, more than anything else. If Pelt’s 
car had not stalled right in front of the door; if it 
had not been raining, and he had not gone to the 
house for shelter, it might have been weeks, maybe 
months, before the murder was found out.” 

Thayer was starting to reply, when he heard the 
sound of a car stopping in the driveway. We had 
been so busy talking that none of us had observed 
the car, as it drove up, but at the sound we turned 
to see who was coming. It was a rather battered 
flivver, dirty and sadly in need of new paint. How¬ 
ever, there was no doubt who the man was that 
jumped out and started toward us. Kelly was so 
thin and so tall that even in the approaching dark¬ 
ness I recognized him before I saw his face. I 
wondered what had brought him to the house. No 
doubt it was to see Bartley. 

He greeted us a bit shortly, but, as he took the 
cigar which Bartley offered, I could see that he was 
excited and rather pleased over something. There 
was a little gleam of triumph in his eyes, and the 
slow, deliberate way he lighted his cigar told me he 
was going to make the most of his moment. He 
waited till the cigar was going to his liking, and 


104 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


then he said, in a voice which, under the studied 
effort to be calm, showed his real feeling: “Well, 
I just made an arrest.” 

Bartley gave him a look, but said nothing; and it 
was Thayer who asked: “Who, and what for?” 

Kelly needed no invitation to tell his story. He 
even threw his cigar away and bent forward in a 
tense manner in his chair. He clasped his long 
arms over his knee and in a hurried voice said: 

“You know, we found one small pocketbook or 
bill fold, on Culver. Nothing much in it, a few 
cards, a letter or two, and about seven dollars; but 
we got the other pocketbook about an hour ago.” 

I saw Bartley’s eyes turn to him, and he asked: 
“Where did you find it?” 

Kelly swept on: “Funny thing about that. 
Have to tell you the yarn. Seems last night some 
of the young people were having a dance up at 
Potter’s for some of the students that are home from 
college. There was a few of them staying the night 
there; they called the thing-” He paused, fish¬ 

ing for the expression. 

“A house party,” I suggested. 

“Yes, that’s it. Well, there was a young fellow 
by the name of Sheldon staying the night there, the 
guest of young Potter. He lives over in Ripley, 
about twelve miles from here; goes to the same col- 


KELLY MAKES AN ARREST 


105 


lege Potter does. About nine he gets a call on the 
’phone, and then suddenly he left the house without 
saying a word to his friend or any of the bunch. 
They saw his car go out on the road toward the town. 
He did not come in till about eleven; and when he 
did they kidded him a bit. but he did not say any¬ 
thing about where he had been. He was a bit ex¬ 
cited, they told me, and jumpy.” 

He paused and fished in his pocket for a cigar 
and, finding one, lighted it. For several moments 
he did not say anything, and Thayer rather impa¬ 
tiently asked: “What’s the big idea?” 

“Wait a second till I come to it,” was Kelly’s 
reply. He seemed to have some kind of a climax 
coming, and again he bent forward eagerly. “Well, 
this morning they heard about the murder and were 
speaking at breakfast about it, when this kid came 
down, and right away he loses all interest in food. 
He got as white as a ghost, wanted to know all 
about the murder, where they found the body, and 
if they knew who did it. He was very excited— 
every one noticed it. About eleven young Potter 
saw him trying to sneak out in the garage, so no one 
could see him. A little curious, Potter followed 
and peeked through a window. Sheldon went to 
his car, took something from it, placed it in his 
pocket, and went out of the garage down into the 


106 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


orchard. Potter followed him and saw him hide the 
thing in a hole in one of the trees. After Sheldon 
had gone back to the house, Potter went to the tree, 
reached into the hole, and came out with a pocket- 
book.’’ 

There came a pause, and then he went on: “He 
told his father what he had seen and found, how 
he had followed Sheldon; and his father examined 
the pocketbook. After looking at it he made him 
come down to the station and tell the chief and my¬ 
self the yarn.” 

“And the pocketbook belonged to Culver?” came 
Bartley’s quiet voice. 

“You bet your life it did!” was the reply. There 
was his name stamped on it and some cards and 
letters in it, also seventy-five dollars in money.” 

“What did you do then?” Bartley asked. 

I saw Kelly grin, as he replied: “Beat it right up 
to the house where Sheldon was, and I arrested him.” 

“What did he say?” some one asked. 

“He was a pretty scared kid. First he denied 
hiding the pocketbook, next he said he found it, and 
then suddenly shut up like a clam. In fact, he 
would not say why he left the house, where he went, 
or anything. Simply said he found it.” 

He leaned back in his chair and threw us a well- 
satisfied look. I could tell he thought he had found 


KELLY MAKES AN ARREST 107 

the murderer, and I could hardly blame him. Why 
the young man should hide the pocketbook, and 
how he happened to have it, unless he knew some¬ 
thing about the crime, would be hard to explain. 
Yet for some reason I wondered. I cast a glance at 
Bartley, but his face was expressionless. As if 
surprised that we did not speak, the detective asked: 
“Well, what do you think of the yarn?” 

“What do you?” Bartley shot back. 

“Me? Why, I think that young chap killed 
him. He must have thought that no one would 
find out anything of the murder for some time, and 
when he heard at breakfast about it, his first thought 
was to hide that pocketbook. If he did not kill him, 
why try to hide the pocketbook?” 

He paused and waited for some one to agree; and, 
since no one said a word, he burst forth again: 
“Oh, it seems as clear as anything you can ask for.” 

“Yes,” came Bartley’s cool reply, “it seems clear 
enough; I agree with you that it’s very odd the boy 
should have that pocketbook. But why should a 
young college boy commit murder?” 

Kelly threw him a glance of triumph. “Listen to 
what’s coming,” he said. “The kid was broke, dead 
broke, and his father had refused to give him any 
money. He kept him down to an allowance of 
five dollars a week, and he paid for the gas he used 


108 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


in his flivver. Why, only at dinner last night he 
said he was ‘so broke that for ten dollars he would 
kill a man.’ ” 

I saw Bartley throw out his hand in a gesture 
of disapproval, but the detective swept on, his voice 
confident: “I take it that he killed him for the 
money he thought he would have.” 

“But,” came the slow voice of Bartley, “you have 
to assume a lot of things. You say no one knew 
that Culver was in town—he had been away weeks. 
You have to assume that boy knew he was back, 
and also knew he would be in the old house. Now, 
that seems a bit absurd. You state that the house 
has been closed for years, no one ever in it, windows 
boarded and doors locked. How did that boy know 
Culver would be there—how did he know he had 
returned?” 

Stung a little at the criticism of his theory, the 
detective spoke in a little higher voice than before. 
“Know?—why, there was that telephone call. 
Maybe Culver called him up.” 

Bartley shook his head. “But you don’t know 
that,” he said. “And, anyway, why should Culver 
call the boy on the phone?” 

The detective rose to his feet and stood towering 
over us. His voice was eager, as he replied: “I 
don’t know, but there is another thing I found.” 


KELLY MAKES AN ARREST 109 

“What’s that?” asked Thayer. 

Slowly, as if wishing to impress us, he replied: 
“I found out to-night that Culver owned that house 
where we found him murdered.” 

“Owned it!” came my startled reply. “Why, I 
thought-” 

He broke in on me: “Yes, he bought it about 
three weeks before he went away.” 


CHAPTER VII 


WE HEAR MORE ABOUT CULVER 

F OR a moment there ensued a silence which no 
one cared to break. Kelly’s statement had 
been startling and unexpected. We had 
been told that the deserted house was part of an 
estate, and it had been closed for many years. Cul¬ 
ver was a comparative newcomer in the town, a man 
who kept to himself and made no friends. One 
of the mysterious things about his death had been 
the fact that his body had been found in the old 
house. Now we had been told he had bought the 
place only a few weeks before he went away. Why 
he should have done this was something that I could 
not understand. 

I could see a puzzled look on Bartley’s face, one 
that suggested several conflicting emotions. It was 
his voice that broke the silence by asking: “Are 
you sure of that, Kelly?” 

The detective nodded. “Yes, and I was knocked 
off my feet when I heard it. Lawyer Green stopped 
me on the street and told me that, about seven weeks 
before Culver went away, he dropped into his office 


no 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 


111 


and asked him to buy the place for him. Did not 
want anything to get out about his owning it and did 
not wish the deed recorded for the present. But he 
bought it and got title to it.” 

“But,” asked Thayer, “why should Culver want 
that old place? As I recollect, there was some story 
about the place.” 

“Sure,” nodded Kelly. “Years ago there was a 
murder there in the barn, and, two years after that, 
old man Yard hung himself in the same barn. The 
family moved away, and no one would buy the 
place.” He paused, grinned, then added: “Folks 
said the place was haunted.” 

“But why should Culver buy it?” persisted 
Thayer. 

Kelly slowly shook his head. “Search me—I 
can’t tell you, but he did buy it; there’s no doubt 
about that.” 

All at once I remembered Bartley’s statement that 
Culver had been stabbed from behind, and that he 
had fired at the figure he had seen in the mirror. 
It had been suggested that he was not familiar with 
the house; that if he had been, he would have known 
the mirror was in front of him. But, if he owned 
the house, he must have known the mirror was there, 
and that it was a figure in the glass that he saw. We 
had also wondered who had furnished the key which 


112 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

had unlocked the front door. Culver’s owning the 
house explained why he had been able to get the key 
—of course he would have it. But Bartley had sug¬ 
gested that the dead man was not familiar with the 
house at all. That was the reason why the murderer 
had been able to creep up from behind to kill him. 
Yet here was Kelly, telling us that Culver had bought 
the house, and if he did, then naturally he knew his 
way around in it. But why had he bought it? 

As if in answer to my questions, Bartley said: 
“It seems rather queer, Kelly, that Culver should be 
the owner of the house where we found him mur¬ 
dered. It’s rather odd he did not wish the deed re¬ 
corded right away, which shows he wished his owner¬ 
ship kept a secret. But why he should buy that old 
place is something we do not know. Of course no 
one seems to know anything about Culver himself, 
why he lived here, what he did, and, above all, why 
he kept himself aloof from everyone.” 

He turned to Thayer. “Did you know the man?” 

Thayer laughed. “Hardly that, John. I have 
spoken to him a few times when I saw him in his 
yard. But he never was friendly. I know his niece 
much better. She came over several times and bor¬ 
rowed books from me, when she was up here last 
year.” 

“Was Culver here at the time of her visit?” 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 


113 


Thayer was silent a moment, as if trying to think. 
“I believe he was,” he said at last. “It’s my im¬ 
pression he went away just before she came.” 

A curious smile came over Bartley’s face, and, 
taking his cigar case from his pocket, he carefully se¬ 
lected one of his long, thin cigars and deliberately 
lighted it. He watched the smoke curl away in a 
thin blue streak, then turned to Kelly. 

“I suppose you will let me talk with that young 
man you arrested?” 

“Sure,” was the reply. “But I think there is no 
doubt he is the criminal.” 

Bartley gave him a long look, saying slowly: 
“Kelly, you may be right, then again you may be 
wrong. The boy seems to be in a bad fix; yet there 
is a chance he may be telling the truth. He may 
have found the pocketbook; you cannot prove he did 
not. If he did, then, frightened at hearing of the 
news of the murder, the thought that he might be 
suspected would cause him to try to hide it. It 
seems to me almost too simple a solution to say that 
the boy committed the murder.” 

Kelly half shrugged bis shoulders, as if wishing to 
give the impression that it might all be as Bartley 
said, but for his part he had his doubts. For a while 
the conversation lagged, and at last Kelly rose, say¬ 
ing he would start back for the towh. As he reached 


114 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


the edge of the veranda, Bartley called to him. 

“Kelly, you say that no one knew Culver, that he 
was barely ever seen on the street. Now, I think 
if you will look around, you will find that people 
knew more about him than you imagine. This is a 
small place, and the fact that he kept by himself and 
made no friends would cause folks to talk. People 
would become interested in him, watch when they saw 
him on the street, and observe everything they could. 
I would not be surprised if you found that people 
had seen him about far more than you think. If I 
were in your place I would keep my ears open, listen 
to the gossip of the town, and you may find out 
something.” 

Agreeing there might be something in what Bart¬ 
ley had said, Kelly left us. He went out to the drive 
and a moment later was turning out into the road, his 
engine protesting noisily, as he disappeared. As the 
sound of the engine died away, Bartley turned to us. 

“You know,” he said, “often the very means 
a person takes to divert suspicion from himself are 
the very things that turn it on him.” 

“Suspicion?” asked Thayer in an astonished voice. 

“Yes, suspicion,” answered Bartley. “There 
seems no doubt Culver came up here to—shall I say 
hide himself? He keeps off the streets and has little 
to do with the people. Naturally, in a small country 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 


115 


town, this fact alone would attract attention. When 
he first came, people would ask who he was and where 
he was from. Seeing that he avoided them, they 
would begin to watch and to talk about him. I have 
little doubt that people know more about what Cul¬ 
ver did here than he figured.” 

At that moment the telephone rang, and Thayer 
rose to answer it. We heard his voice float out 
through the open windows of the library, and in a 
short time he returned. He did not seat himself, 
but stood leaning against the rail of the veranda, ad¬ 
dressing his remarks to Bartley. 

“John,” he said, Jim Slater just called up. He 
is a lawyer here, the best in the place—college man 
and a great book lover. He comes up to my place 
every week, and he has often heard me speak of you. 
He just told me that he handled Culver’s affairs here, 
and something very puzzling has been found. He 
is over at the house now with Culver’s niece and sug¬ 
gests that you go over, if you will. The girl also is 
anxious to see you.” 

Bartley rose to his feet with a laugh. “Well, 
Thayer, I guess I had better go. I have to get our 
friend Pelt back into the good graces of the public.” 
He paused for a moment, then added: “Besides, 
this affair begins to interest me.” 

We followed Thayer down the steps, across his 


116 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


lawn and out to the road. You could not jump 
over the fence into the next yard, because it was a 
wire fence at least ten feet high; so we were forced 
to go around by the road, then turn into the yard 
through the gate. 

It was a large yard, with many great elm trees, 
the leaves of which made it rather dark and gloomy. 
The house itself was a rambling old place, set several 
hundred yards from the road, with a huge veranda 
that stretched around three sides. A gravel walk 
led through the trees, with a privet hedge on each 
side. The wind was rising a little, and the sound 
of the branches above our heads was like the mur¬ 
mur of water on the shore. 

As we crossed the veranda to the door, I noticed 
that the lights seemed to be on in all the front rooms. 
Thayer rang the bell, and we waited silently for 
someone to come. It was opened at last by a fat 
negress, who held the door only partly open until she 
looked us over. As if reassured, she flung it wide, 
and asked us into a large hall. Leading the way, 
she took us halfway down the hall, then knocked at 
a closed door before her. At the command to “Come 
in,” she flung it open, and we followed her into what 
seemed to be a large library. 

For a moment my eyes saw only the long rows of 
books upon the wall, the bookcases rising almost to 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 


117 


the ceiling. The books were dark and faded with 
age, and the library must have been an old one. In 
one corner of the room was a rather large safe, which 
looked very much out of place among the old ma¬ 
hogany furniture with which the room was furnished. 
A large desk drawn before a great divan was in front 
of the fireplace, in which, even though it was June, 
a small wood fire was blazing. I also noticed that 
every light in the room was on. 

Standing in front of the fireplace was a man with a 
keen, intellectual face. The only singular thing 
about him was the fact that, although he was a young 
man, his hair was snowy white. The white hair, 
with the athletic appearance of his body, made a 
curious contrast. As soon as we entered, he came 
over to us, greeted Thayer, and was introduced to 
Bartley and myself. It was Thayer’s friend Slater, 
who seemed very pleased at meeting Bartley, and he 
remarked that Thayer had spoken of him again and 
again. 

Suddenly I noticed the girl who had just risen 
from the divan, where she had been sitting. It was 
the girl I had seen in the court room—the niece of 
the murdered man. In the courtroom I had thought 
she was beautiful, but now in some kind of a house 
dress, which clung to the lines of her fine figure, I 
saw that she was a very beautiful girl indeed. Her 


118 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


eyes, however, looked tired, and, I thought, anxious. 
Somehow I got the impression that she was afraid. 
I may have been mistaken, yet there seemed to be a 
trace of bewilderment, mingled with fear. But, if 
so, during the introduction, which she acknowledged 
in a musical voice, it was not evident. 

The divan was large, and we all seated ourselves 
on it, except the lawyer, who stood before the fire 
looking down on us. He had a fine face, the lines 
around his lips showing that he had a sense of 
humor. He seemed puzzled, as though he had run 
into a situation that was beyond him. No one said 
anything, for it was evident that the lawyer had 
something to tell us. As I waited for him to speak, 
my glance traveled back to the girl; and, when our 
eyes suddenly met, it seemed to me that there was 
an appeal in them. But if so, it was at once for¬ 
gotten, for the lawyer started to speak. 

His voice betrayed a certain hesitation, as though 
he scarcely knew what to say, or just where to com¬ 
mence; and his remarks were addressed directly to 
Bartley. 

“I hope, Mr. Bartley,” he said, “You will excuse 
my asking you to come over. But, when I heard you 
were visiting Mr. Thayer, I could not resist calling 
upon you for assistance.” 

Bartley informed him he would be pleased to aid 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 


119 


him in whatever manner he could. I could see that 
his statement came as a relief to the lawyer, and from 
the manner of the girl, also to her. I had noticed 
one thing about her; although her uncle had been 
killed only a few hours before, she did not show any 
signs of grief. Instead, she acted puzzled and, it 
seemed to me, a little frightened. 

“You know,” came the voice of the lawyer, “I am 
in a sense—or rather was—Culver’s lawyer.” He 
shrugged his shoulders and corrected himself rather 
dryly. “That is, I did some business for him, al¬ 
though I hardly knew him, and I saw him only three 
or four times. But Culver was his niece’s guardian, 
and, having to consult a lawyer once or twice, he 
came to me.” He paused, then added impressively: 
“And she became of age to-day.” 

Bartley gave a curious smile, but did not speak ;j 
and in a moment the lawyer went on: “To put it 
briefly, she had an estate of about forty thousand 
dollars coming to her, but I can find no trace of it. 
Furthermore, the bank here, where Culver kept his 
money, tells me that he drew almost everything out 
before he went away. We managed to get into his 
safe-deposit box, though it was not strictly legal to 
do so, but found it was empty.” 

Waiting a moment, he continued: “I do not, of 
course, know how much Mr. Culver was worth, but 


120 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


his niece tells me that forty thousand dollars was the 
amount of the estate which was to come to her. 
There was some property in Providence; I tele¬ 
graphed down there and found it was sold over four 
months ago. The money was placed in the bank 
here. Some weeks before he left, Mr. Culver began 
to draw out his deposits, until, at the time he went 
away, there were only about five hundred dollars 
left.” 

Thayer gave a sudden start. “By Jove,” he said, 
“it looks as though he intended to skip out with it.” 

The lawyer agreed, but added: “It would have 
seemed that way but for the fact that he was found 
dead last night. That looks as if he intended to re¬ 
turn. Still, why should he withdraw all his money 
and sell the girl’s property?” 

Bartley’s cool, low, cultured voice broke in: “You 
forget one thing. He returned, but what did he do 
with the money? He would not have forty thou¬ 
sand dollars on him. Besides, I judged his own 
money must have been considerable.” 

“I don’t know what he was worth,” the lawyer re¬ 
plied. “He was presumed to be a wealthy man. 
The bank tells me he deposited a large amount of 
money during last summer and in April and May of 
this year.” 

Bartley’s voice took on an interested tone. “You 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 121 

say his deposits were during the summer months? 
Did he deposit much in the winter ?” 

“I don’t know about the winter months,” was the 
reply. 

I stole a glance at Bartley and found his face 
grave, yet there was a gleam in his eyes. Some¬ 
thing had pleased him, but what it was I would not 
be able to discover until he told me. The lawyer 
lapsed into silence, and in the stillness that followed 
I heard the girl move uneasily on the divan by my 
side. I stole a glance at her. She was leaning 
back against the arm of the divan, but she seemed 
to be nervous, her face flushing a little under my 
glance. 

“Can you tell me something about your uncle?” 
Bartley asked, turning to the girl. 

Rather eagerly came her reply, the voice a little 
uneven: “I am afraid I cannot, sir. Though he 
was my uncle, yet it has only been within the last 
two years that I have been in his home. I was in 
school in the South. He never visited me, and he 
only wrote once or twice. Last summer he invited 
me to come here, saying he would be away most of 
the time. In fact I did not come till August, and 
then I stayed but three weeks, and he was not here 
any of the time. He left a note, saying he had been 
called away on business.” 


122 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


“And this visit?” Bartley inquired. 

“Why, this time he asked me to come when school 
ended. He wrote that his brother was coming from 
England. He himself expected to be away till about 
the end of the month, but he wrote that he wished 
me to be here to help entertain his brother.” 

She paused, then suddenly in a rapid tone added: 
“In fact, Mr. Bartley, I never really knew my uncle. 
I saw him only three or four times in all. He was 
not a man to say much, or to bother much with me.” 

“How old were you when he became your guar¬ 
dian?” 

“I was around eleven. Mother was dying, and 
she sent for my uncle. I don’t know where he lived, 
but I remember mother said he was a broker. After 
her death the lawyers told me she had left a will 
making him my guardian. He placed me in a school 
right away, and it’s only within the last two years 
he ever asked me to his home. I was so small When 
mother died, and afterward spent all my time in a 
school, that in reality I never knew him at all. He 
always paid the school bills and kept me supplied 
with money—not a great deal, but all I needed.” 

“This other uncle, who is coming from England,” 
asked Bartley, “I take it you never knew?” 

The girl shook her head slowly. “No, I never 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 


123 


saw him, though I have a vague recollection of being 
told there was another uncle. I was a little sur¬ 
prised when I got the letter saying that he was to 
be here this summer, and that I was to entertain him 
until Mr. Culver returned.” 

“And when was the other uncle to arrive?” came 
the question. 

“Some time at the end of this week,” was the 
answer. “I think he is on the water now.” 

Bartley rose to his feet, going over to one of the 
bookcases and examining the books before him, as 
though he were very much interested in the titles. 
After a few moments he turned to the lawyer. “I 
presume,” he said, “you will look into the condition 
of the estate, and it will take some days?” 

The lawyer nodded, adding that the whole affair 
was so perplexing that he hardly knew what to do. 
It would take some time to find out just what had 
happened to the money—if he ever could find out. 
For the present it seemed that Culver himself was 
the only one who knew where it had gone, and he 
was dead—murdered. Clearly the lawyer had not 
yet reached what seemed to me to be the only con¬ 
clusion : that the dead man had intended to cheat his 
niece out of her property. If it were not so, why 
had he gone away, and why had he withdrawn the 


124 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


money from the bank? But the hardest thing was 
to fathom his reason for returning to town if he had 
intended to steal the money. 

Asking if he could take a look at the room, Bart¬ 
ley rather slowly started to examine the books in the 
cases. There must have been four thousand of 
them, perhaps even more, for the cases went almost 
to the ceiling. The books for the most part were 
old, and, as I rose and glanced at their titles, I 
judged that they were part of some old library. 
Bartley spent little time with these, but at the sec¬ 
tion that was made up of newer books, he turned and 
asked the girl if her uncle read much. She replied 
that many of the books had been bought with the 
house, but he, himself, had purchased those which 
Bartley was at that moment looking at. In the si¬ 
lence that followed, Bartley took several books from 
the shelves, glanced at the titles, and placed them 
back again with a smile. 

There was little of interest in the room. The 
safe filled one corner, and near it stood a phono¬ 
graph. The only odd thing I saw was a small rou¬ 
lette wheel which stood upon the desk. This, how¬ 
ever, was more a toy than anything else. There 
were few pictures on the walls, and these were 
mostly cheap prints. The windows came down to 
the level of the floor, opening on the veranda, with 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 


125 


long, heavy curtains which hid them. In fact the 
whole room was decidedly commonplace, with little 
to guide one as to the tastes of the person who had 
used it. 

Bartley’s examination of the room ended in front 
of the safe, before which he paused. Glancing at 
it a moment, he turned to Slater. “You will have to 
have this opened,” he said. 

The lawyer agreed, saying that he would endeavor 
to do that in the morning, and he also asked Bartley 
if he would be present when it was done. Saying 
> he would, Bartley returned to the divan and stood 
looking down at the girl. 

“Would you mind telling me,” he asked, “just 
what you are afraid of?” 

She gave a little start, and her face reddened. 
Then, as her eyes met his, she said: “I am a little 
afraid, Mr. Bartley. It’s foolish, I know, but the 
death of my uncle, coming at this time when I am 
alone in this big house, makes me slightly nervous. 

I know it’s foolish to be afraid, but-” Here her 

voice trailed away. 

“Yes,” came Bartley’s voice encouragingly. 

“But after last night, when some one tried to 
break into the house-” 

“What!” broke in Bartley and Thayer at the 
same time. “Some one tried to break in last night?” 



126 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

Astonished at their surprise, the girl simply said: 
“Why, I thought you had heard of it.” 

Bartley quickly told her he had not and asked 
her to give all the particulars. 

“It was about eleven,” she said, “when I heard 
a noise downstairs. It seemed to come from this 
room. I took a small revolver with me and came to 
the head of the stairs. Just as I reached them, I 
saw the figure of a man by the front door. I was 
pretty well frightened, but called out that I would 
shoot, and he then ran out of the door.” 

“You mean the front door was open?” Bartley 
asked. 

She nodded. “Yes, I waited for a while and then 
roused the housekeeper. She was frightened, but 
said I must have dreamed it, for she had locked the 
door before going to bed. I knew that, for I had 
tried it myself before I went upstairs, and it was 
locked. But we went down and found that the door 
was open. I bolted it again.” 

The expression on Bartley’s face was a strange 
one, and his gaze, leaving the girl’s face, swept the 
room. In a moment he asked: “Did you find any¬ 
thing disturbed?” 

“Not that I could see,” she replied. “However 
I don’t know just what is in the house; but this morn¬ 
ing we found the dog had been killed.” 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 


127 


The look of bewilderment on Bartley’s face was 
astonishing—at least to me. As a rule one could not 
tell by his expression what his thoughts might be. 
But he was showing astonishment now, and it was 
in the tone of his voice when he asked: “The dog 
killed—how?” 

The girl gave a shudder, as if she did not care to 
talk about it, then said slowly: “He was found in 
the next lot, strangled, a cord drawn tight about his 
neck.” 

Eagerly came the question: “Did you hear him 
bark shortly before you heard the sounds down¬ 
stairs?” 

The girl was silent for a while, trying to think, 
then said slowly: “I—think, perhaps I did, about 
thirty minutes before I heard the sound. You see 
I went to bed about ten, but the strange house and 
the fact that I’m alone made me nervous, and I lay 
awake in the dark. I am sure I heard him bark— 
once.” 

“Not more than once?” 

“No, I am sure of that.” 

Bartley turned to the lawyer: “Slater, to-morrow 
if I were you I would get some man from the village 
to stay here a while. It’s hardly safe for the two 
women, and there should be a man around.” 

The girl protested that she was not afraid, but at 


128 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


last admitted that she would feel safer if there were 
a man in the house. It was agreed that the lawyer 
should endeavor to find some one who would look 
after the place and sleep in the house. Though the 
girl had said it was not necessary, yet she admitted 
she would feel safer. 

In the long talk that followed, a talk that lasted 
an hour, both Bartley and Slater tried to find out 
if the girl had any knowledge of her uncle’s business, 
and where he had lived before coming to Chester. 
Her knowledge of the uncle was slight, since she had 
seen him only a few times in her life. In fact, till 
she had been called to identify his body, she had 
seen him only twice during the last four years. 
What his business might have been, she had little 
idea, though she believed he had plenty of money. 
They questioned her for at least an hour, but in the 
end knew no more about Culver than when they be¬ 
gan. She could give them no information, though 
she was perfectly willing to tell all she knew. 

I could see that she was getting tired. Her face 
was flushed, and she was leaning wearily in the cor¬ 
ner of the divan. It had been a hard day for her— 
one of strain and anxiety. The lawyer’s statement 
regarding her money must also have been a great 
shock. Though weary and nervous, she tried to 


MORE ABOUT CULVER 129 

hide it, answering all the questions that were put 
to her. 

At last Bartley said: “I know you are tired, and 
I am going to ask just one more question, then I 
think you had better go to bed to try to get some 
sleep. Your uncle, I heard, dismissed his house¬ 
keeper a few days before he went away. Do you 
know where she went? 

She shook her head and replied that she did not, 
but she volunteered the information that the present 
housekeeper, the fat negress, lived in the village. 

After a few more words we rose to leave the room. 
Bartley, however, went over to the side of the girl 
and held a low conversation with her. I heard her 
say “The front room,” and then he spoke softly. A 
look of relief seemed to pass over her face, and she 
nodded eagerly. Then, rising to her feet, she went 
to the door with us, and in a moment more we were 
out into the night. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW 

S we stepped down upon the walk, we dis¬ 



covered that the night had changed. The 


wind was rising, blowing in little gusts, 


and it promised rain. The sky was overcast with 
heavy clouds, clouds that seemed to be hanging very 
low. Above our heads the branches of the trees 
were swaying in the wind, with an unpleasant sound. 
Since we were outside the town limits, there were 
no electric lights, and the darkness seemed rather in¬ 
tense until my eyes became accustomed to it. 

Going a few feet down the walk, Bartley paused 
and looked back at the house. He studied it for 
several moments, turning at last to glance across 
at the dim shadow of Thayer’s house, which stood 
only a short distance away. Then without a word 
he hurried after us. 

The lawyer conversed briefly with Bartley, then 
said good night and turned toward the town. We 
walked the few yards that separated us from 
Thayer’s place, then walked into the yard and up 
the path to his house. No one spoke, and when his 


130 


THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW 131 


housekeeper opened the door, we went silently into 
the library. I dropped into a chair, while Bartley 
stood fingering a book that was on the table, though 
I knew from his expression that his thoughts were 
far away. His face was serious and, I thought, 
puzzled. Thayer excused himself, returning in a 
few moments with three tall glasses on a tray. As 
he handed us each one, he said with a little grin: 
“I thought a pre-Volstead drink would do us no 
harm.” 

Bartley laughed and sank into a chair, while 
Thayer seated himself on the sofa across from him. 
After a sip of his highball, the writer placed it on 
the stand by his side, and suddenly asked: “John, 
what do you make out of all we heard to-night?” 

Bartley gave him a grave look and said: “Well, 
Thayer, you are a writer; you wanted a plot, and 
here is one.” 

The tone of Thayer’s voice, as he replied, was 
so serious that it almost made me smile. “Plot!” 
he said. “Do you know, John, if I had invented 
a plot like that, placed it in a book, the critics would 
either have said it was impossible, or that it was old 
stuff. Think of it—here is Culver murdered. We 
don’t know who he was, what business he was in, 
or anything about him. He came to this little coun¬ 
try place and kept himself away from the people. 


132 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


Suddenly we find him murdered and discover that he 
had stolen his niece’s inheritance. Some plot, I 
would say. What do you think?” and he leaned 
forward earnestly. 

Bartley did not answer, and Thayer insisted: 
“You must have some sort of a theory, John.” 

Bartley slowly drank the remainder of his high¬ 
ball; then, with a laugh, he said: “Thayer, you cer¬ 
tainly have been reading too many detective stories. 
Now, though I am a criminal investigator, yet I do 
not perform miracles. I know nothing more about 
this affair than you do. In fact, there never was a 
detective I ever heard or read of, a real one, that 
could solve a crime without clews. There seem 
to be no clews in this affair”—he paused, then added 
—“as yet. Theories! I have a dozen, but they 
mean little so far.” 

Not satisfied, Thayer turned to me and asked 
what I thought. I told him very frankly that sev¬ 
eral things surprised me. The first was what Kelly 
had said about Culver’s owning the house he had 
been murdered in; next was the fact that he had not 
seemed to care for his niece. I added, as a third 
thing, that it was strange that some one had tried 
to break into his house the night of the murder. 

“Funny,” Thayer broke in, “they should kill the 
dog. That shows it was some one who was not 


THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW 133 


familiar with the house and wanted the dog out of 
the way. 55 

“Or else,” drawled Bartley, “some one who knew 
the house, knew the dog, and did not wish to be 
recognized by him.” 

“How do you make that out?” came Thayer’s 
surprised voice. 

“Very simple,” was the answer. “You remember 
the girl said she heard the dog bark—once. She 
was awake, and if he had barked more than once, 
she would have heard it. If it had been a stranger, 
the dog would have kept on barking. But there 
was one bark, one, perhaps, because he recognized 
the person. And that is just the reason why the 
dog was killed.” 

Suddenly remembering the dog which had been 
on the veranda of the old house, when I returned 
with the chief on the night of the murder, I told 
them about it. I pictured rather vividly the un¬ 
earthly howls that he was giving and the evident 
fact that the dog was afraid. Bartley listened, his 
face grave enough, but he asked no questions, simply 
saying that it was odd. 

Several times he rose and went to the window, 
peering eagerly into the night. The last time he 
did this he glanced at his watch when he came 
back to our side, and then he said: “Thayer, I think 


134 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

perhaps it might not be so bad if we sat up in my 
room ” 

Thayer half protested that the library was the 
more comfortable place in which to sit, acting some¬ 
what surprised at Bartley’s suggestion. As we 
started to leave the room, Thayer left the lights 
on, and Bartley went back and turned them out. 
He had some reason for it, and I gave his friend 
a glance that said as much. 

Our two large bedrooms were in the front of the 
house. We went into Bartley’s and, finding some 
chairs, made ourselves comfortable. Before he sat 
down, Bartley drew aside the curtain from the win¬ 
dow and looked out again, as he had done down¬ 
stairs. Coming back to the bed, he seated himself 
on its edge, and lighted a cigar. 

“Do you know,” said Thayer slowly, “I kinder 
think that one of us ought to have stayed over at 
the house with that girl. I somehow do not like the 
idea of her being alone, more so after some one 
tried to get in there last night.” 

Bartley rose, and turned the button that put 
out the lights. That left the room in semi-darkness, 
due to the light that came in from the hall. It 
was dark, yet not so dark but that I could easily 
distinguish both Bartley and Thayer, who were 
across the room from me. As if answering Thayer’s 


THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW 135 

last remark, Bartley’s voice floated over from the 
bed: 

“I thought of that, Thayer. You may have 
noticed that the room the girl sleeps in can be seen 
from my window. I told her to lock her door to¬ 
night, and if she heard anything, to turn her light 
on and pull her shade halfway down, since I would 
be watching to see if there were any need of aid.” 

Thayer’s voice had a startled tone in it, as he 
asked: “But, John, that looks as if you thought 
some one might try to enter the house again—try 
it to-night.” 

“That’s what I think,” came the reply. “If 
there is something in that house that they want, 
then, it seems to me, they want it at once. Last 
night they were frightened away, but they may try 
again to-night.” 

“But,” I protested, “why did we not stay there 
then, so we would be on the spot if some one tried 
to break in?” 

I heard Bartley chuckle. “For a very good 
reason, Pelt. Don’t you see that they would have 
known if we were in the house, and, if we had 
stayed, no attempt would have been made to get in? 
Instead, we come away. They see the lights go 
out in Thayer’s library and in the bedrooms. Nat¬ 
urally then they think we do not expect another 


136 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


attempt will be made. By staying here we can 
watch the house, and, if the girl hears anything, she 
will arrange the window shade.” 

Thayer half protested: “But at that, John, you 
don’t know that any one will try to get in there.” 

“I know that,” was the reply, “but then in my 
profession one tries always to outguess the other 
fellow. The odds are no one will, but, if some one 
does, there is a chance that we shall know it.” 

For a while no one spoke. Bartley had risen 
from the bed and taken a chair over near the win¬ 
dow, where, hidden by the curtains, he could watch 
the other house. I could dimly see the figure of 
Thayer across from me, and his cigar made a little 
red spot in the darkness. For a while we sat there 
silently smoking, and it was Thayer who broke the 
silence. 

“John, what do you think about the girl’s saying 
the door was open, that front door, after she had 
locked it?” 

Bartley’s voice came from the window: “It’s hard 
to tell, Thayer. One might think that it was a pro¬ 
fessional thief. As a rule, when burglars enter a 
house, they unlock the front door, leaving it slightly 
open so they can have a clear field to get out, in 
case they have to move quickly. Then again, the 
person may have had a key. If that is so, then it 


THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW 137 


is some one that knows the house very well. The 
most important thing is, not how they got in, but 
what they were after.” 

“It’s queer,” I remarked, “that on the same night 
Culver was killed his house should be broken into.” 

“Yes,” came Bartley’s voice after a pause, “that 
is queer. The killing of the dog is queer, also. 
But I would give a good deal to know just what it 
was they were after.” 

“The girl showed nerve,” commented Thayer. 

We all agreed to this, and then for a while silence 
fell again, broken by Thayer’s again asking Bartley 
what he thought of the whole thing. I had been 
wondering myself what Bartley thought, and I 
waited eagerly for his answer. 

Speaking rather carefully, as if choosing his 
words, he said he hardly knew what to answer. The 
first thing, the thing that seemed apparent on the 
face of it, was that Culver had come to town to 
hide, and that he had some reason for keeping under 
cover. He added that a small town like this was 
often considered by people like Culver as being a 
good place in which to hide. But, with a laugh, 
he told us there were no safe places, that it was 
only a matter of time, no matter where a person 
went, before he would be recognized. To illustrate 
this he told of several cases where criminals had 


138 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


gone into the most remote spots, thinking they 
would be safe, and were recognized by people within 
a year. The city, and the larger the city the better, 
was the safest place for a man who wished to drop 
out of sight. 

He said that it seemed as if Culver had intended 
to go away and, perhaps, never return. His taking 
the money which belonged to the girl, showed that. 
His not writing, the withdrawal of his own money 
from the bank, made it evident that he had no in¬ 
tention of returning. 

“But he did come back,” Thayer said dryly, “and 
was murdered.” 

“Yes,” came the reply,” he did return. That is 
as great a mystery as the fact that we do not know 
what he did with the money he took with him. A 
man that does as he did—withdraws all his money 
from the bank and takes the money that he holds 
in trust—is evidently making a get-away. But 
Culver returned secretly, and the question is—why?” 

“He returned, all right,” I insisted, “and he was 
seen by two people just before he was killed.” 

“Two,” protested Bartley; “you are wrong, Pelt, 
by one—that minister.” 

I remembered that I had not told him of the doc¬ 
tor’s statement, that he had seen Culver, called to 
him, and the man, without speaking, had struck 


THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW 139 


across the fields. In a few words I told what the 
doctor had said, and when I finished, Thayer 
exclaimed: 

“But that’s absurd, Pelt! Both those men could 
not have seen him. The doctor was two miles or 
more west of the town, and the minister was about 
the same distance the other side of the town. At 
least five miles separated them. Culver could not 
have been in both places at the same time. That’s 
logical, isn’t it, Bartley?” 

There was a troubled tone in Bartley’s voice, as 
he answered: “It’s logical enough, Billy. But some 
one must be mistaken.” He turned in my direction. 
“Did that doctor know Culver?” 

“He said he knew him,” I replied. “Had been 
called in to treat him once. He insisted that it was 
Culver, but admitted he saw his back first, although, 
when he came opposite him and spoke, he caught 
a glimpse of his profile. Then the man without 
saying a word turned his back and struck into the 
fields.” 

“He may have been mistaken,” put in Thayer. 
“It was then about dusk.” 

“That’s true,” replied Bartley slowly. “But, even 
so, the doctor knew him, and he ought not to have 
been mistaken. It is very odd, however; here is 
the minister saying Culver passed him in an auto- 


140 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

mobile, and here is the doctor saying that about the 
same time he saw him five miles away. And in 
both cases it could not have been very long before 
he was killed. It’s very queer.” 

After a pause, Thayer said in a musing voice: 
“And you don’t know anything about the man, his 
personal habits or the like.” 

“Oh, yes, I do,” retorted Bartley. 

“You do?” was Thayer’s startled retort. “Where 
did you find them out?” 

Bartley chuckled. “I have eyes, Thayer. I 
know that Culver read a good deal. He was 
interested in spiritualism. He was superstitious. 
He liked music, and he smoked. Also I have the 
idea that he fooled a little in mining stocks.” 

“Where did you find out all that?” Thayer queried 
in surprise. 

“Well,” drawled Bartley, “did you not notice 
to-night that the bookcases in his library were filled? 
Most of them were old things and evidently went 
with the house when he bought it. But there was 
also a section of late books; most of them had to do 
with spiritualism; the crudest sort of fakes were 
there—all of them. Books on magic, superstition— 
and all of them had been read. It does not take 
much intuition to see that he was interested in them. 


THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW 141 


And a man who buys many books of that kind is, 
to say the least, superstitious.” 

He paused, lighted a fresh cigar, then went on: 
“The phonograph seemed to have an unusual num¬ 
ber of records. It is evident that he liked music. 
The number of ash trays in the rooms told that he 
smoked. As for the curb stocks—well, there were 
several of the cheap oil journals, the kind filled up 
with advertisements of fake oil stocks that are sold 
in Fort Worth, Texas, together with several cheap 
mining-stock journals. It’s true a man may re¬ 
ceive all those because he is on what we call the 
‘sucker list,’ the mailing list of some curb house. 
And the fact that his name appeared on such a list, 
is an obvious indication that he must have been 
interested at some time, in such wildcat investments. 
Also”—he paused a moment—“he was afraid of 
something.” 

“Afraid?” I asked. 

“Yes, afraid. The windows had new locks on 
them, very heavy ones. There were twice as many 
lights in that room as were needed. He wanted 
plenty of light, for he was evidently afraid of the 
dark.” 

“Why should a grown man be afraid of the 
dark?” asked Thayer. 


142 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


“You are presumed to know your psychology,” 
was the answer. “ ‘The fear of the dark sets the 
problem to every psychologist as to what is behind 
the fear; what is the anxiety, neurosis?’ As a rule 
it is the dread of punishment for one’s own evil 
deeds. I will wager that I shall find that Culver 
had a great many electric lights in his sleeping room 
and a lock on his door. His spiritualistic ideas 
even bear that out. The psychologist will tell you 
that the dread and fear of death is often transformed 
to the opposite, and that people with such a subcon¬ 
scious fear try to remove it by spiritualism, by 
attempted association with the dead.” 

“Conan Doyle ought to hear you,” grunted 
Thayer. 

“Maybe he ought to,” came the quick reply. 
“But that’s what a psychologist would say about his 
great credulity. It is a subconscious fear of death, 
translated in an effort to overcome it by his belief 
in spiritualism. Anyway, Culver was afraid, and I 
would like to know what he did to cause the fear— 
and perhaps we shall never find out.” 

He rose to look out of the window. As he did 
so, I heard the clock on the floor below strike twelve. 
Rising from my chair I went to his side and looked 
out into the yard. It was dark, yet I could faintly 


THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW 143 


make out the form of the house across the way. 
For a moment or two I stared into the darkness, 
listening to the sound of the wind, as it swept 
through the branches of the trees. Far away, down 
in the town, I heard a dog bark, bark for a second 
—then all was silent. 

As Bartley again took his chair, I heard Thayer 
yawn, and in a sleepy voice he said: “What do 
you think about Kelly’s story of that boy he locked 
up?” 

“It’s curious, to say the least. It hardly seems 
to me that a young college boy would murder a 
man—a man that we must presume he hardly knew. 
If he did, we have to assume that he knew Culver 
would be in the house and knew he had money on 
him. But it’s hardly logical to think he would 
leave a dance, take his car, go three or four miles, 
murder a man, then return and dance with his 
friends.” 

“It’s not logical, but his having the pocketbook 
and hiding it seems rather singular,” I ventured. 

“Yes, it does. His having the pocketbook seems 
odd; but his trying to hide it, is the fool thing a 
frightened youth would do. Of course Kelly thinks 
his having it shows that he killed the man. The 
police, as a rule, never take the simpler and logical 


144 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

explanation; they always look for something else. 
In this case, though the boy says he found it, they 
assume at once he is lying.” 

“But he refused to say where he went,” replied 
Thayer. 

“He did; but maybe a night in jail will make him 
talk,” came the laughing retort. 

Conversation died away after this, and I slipped 
down in my chair. As the minutes passed, I 
realized that it was going to be a hard matter to 
keep my eyes open. The window was closed, be¬ 
cause Bartley had not cared to have the sound of 
our voices float out on the night. And it was close, 
and the cigar smoke made it much worse. I felt 
sleepy, and my eyes closed for a second, once or 
twice. I thought that Bartley perhaps was pre¬ 
suming too much in thinking there would be another 
attempt to enter Culver’s house. I could hear 
Thayer moving uneasily in his chair, and I judged 
he was getting restless, too. And yet Bartley sat 
motionless, his eyes fixed on the window. 

I had almost fallen asleep, and I was roused by 
the clock, striking either one or the half hour, when 
there came a sudden exclamation from Bartley. 
In a second he called to us, and, as we crowded 
around him, he said: 

“Look!” 


THE LIGHT AT THE WINDOW 145 


I looked eagerly out into the yard, across its 
length and past the great trees to the other house. 
It stood black, a mere outline against the darkness. 
From an upper window there streamed forth a faint 
light. The curtain was half down, a black mass 
against the window. But across the lower half 
there was a ray of light. The girl had turned the 
light on in her room; across the space of the two 
yards it was telling us that she had been aroused, 
that she had heard something, and was appealing 
to us for aid. 


CHAPTER IX 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 

HE moment during which we stood watch¬ 



ing the light at the window seemed endless. 


X My first thought had been one of surprise. 
I had not believed any one would attempt, for the 
second night running, to enter the house. Yet, as 
I stood by Bartley’s side, I realized that he was 
not surprised. Many times in the past he had 
worked on what we call “hunches,” certain intima¬ 
tions from the subconscious mind. And this time 
he had been right. There across the dark and 
silent yard the thin streak of light from the girl’s 
window called to us for aid. 

Only a moment did we stand there. Then Bart¬ 
ley turned, his voice tense, as he spoke: “Pelt, 
there is a gun on my bureau. I want you to go 
around the side of the house and wait. I will try 
the front door. Thayer can take the other side. 
If any one comes out, try to get him.” 

Thayer’s voice was cool enough, as he groaned: 
“Fine, John, but suppose the person don’t wish to 
stop.” 


146 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 147 

“You must try to hold him,” was the reply. “But 
don’t use the gun.” 

Finding the gun, I followed Thayer and Bartley 
out into the hall and down to the main floor. Here 
Thayer paused a second to say: “We had better 
go out the back door, John, then there will be little 
chance of being seen.” 

Bartley agreed that this was a wise suggestion, 
and we went through the kitchen to the door at the 
back of the house. Opening it, we slid out into 
the darkness. Against the side of the house we 
paused to listen, but there came to our ears no un¬ 
usual sounds. In the distance we heard the sound of 
a fast-moving automobile, the sound growing fainter 
and fainter; and somewhere across the fields a dog 
barked, then became still. The wind, which had 
risen, was lashing the branches of the trees, but we 
heard nothing suspicious. 

With Bartley in the lead, we went around the 
house, keeping in the shadow of the trees, as we 
stole across the lawn to the road. With a glance 
up and down its length, a glance that revealed that 
there was nothing in sight, we darted across the road 
to the shadow of the trees that ran along the high 
wire fence. The fence was at least ten feet high, 
and it was not possible to climb over it; we would 
have to go in through the main entrance. At the 


148 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

gate Bartley paused again, looking intently into the 
yard. 

The great trees within cast weird shadows and 
splotches of blackness before us. It was a dark 
night, but not dense. Out in the road it was pos¬ 
sible to distinguish objects several feet away. The 
trees, however, with their shadows, made the yard 
very dark. The walk which led to the house, be¬ 
cause of its pebbled construction, was a streak of 
white. On each side was a privet hedge, and, with 
a whispered warning to be careful, Bartley slipped 
through the gate and behind the hedge. We fol¬ 
lowed, pausing to listen again, but in the end heard 
nothing. 

In the shadow of the hedge I doubted if we could 
have been seen. Still, Bartley took no chances— 
bending low and keeping within the dark shadow. 
The hedge swept off in a wide circle before the house, 
and here we stopped. The house was in front of 
us, looking very huge in the darkness, but there 
was not a sign of life about it. All was still, and 
even the light in the girl’s bedroom, two stories 
above us, had disappeared. 

Coming closer to us, Bartley whispered: “I am 
going up on the piazza and into the house. I want 
you, Pelt, to creep around the other side and watch. 
Thayer will stay here. Keep in the shadows.” 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 


149 


“But,” I whispered back, “how will you get in?” 

“I provided for that,” was his low reply. “The 
girl was to leave the window unlocked in the room 
across from the library. If you hear anything 
within the house, make a break for it; smash open 
a window if necessary to get in.” 

With a low “Good luck,” we watched him dart 
across the driveway. For a second his figure could 
be seen, then, as he darted up the steps, it was lost 
to sight in the darkness of the veranda. With a 
whispered word to Thayer, I left him, creeping 
slowly until I reached the end of the hedge almost 
at the back of the house. Here I hesitated, not 
wishing to leave the protection of the shadow. But 
in a second I saw that this would not be necessary. 
There was a great tree almost in front of me, its 
trunk casting a dark spot before me. 

I crept into its cover; then finding, because of the 
greater number of trees, that it was much darker at 
the back of the house than at the front, I went on 
until I came around to the other side. Here in the 
shadow of a huge bush, a bush that made a cave of 
darkness, I squatted down on the grass to wait. 

For a while I waited, my every nerve at the 
highest tension. The darkness, the stillness, and 
the wonder of what might be happening to Bartley, 
unnerved me somewhat. Then, again, I felt alone. 


150 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


It seemed as though I were the only person out in 
the night, and I felt as much alone as if I were on 
a desert island in the sea. I peered up at the 
house, its outline a mere mass against the darkness. 
But nothing could be seen; no light came from 
within. In the yard itself I could perceive nothing 
except the varied mass of shadows of all shades of 
darkness. Above my head the boughs of the trees, 
swaying with the wind, made weird sounds. 

Suddenly I began to feel that I was not alone in 
the yard. I sensed that some one else was watching 
the house, some one crouching in the blackness, as 
I was, some one also waiting. It was a mere im¬ 
pression at first, and I carefully looked all around. 
But I could see nothing; the night was far too dark. 
Yet I felt uneasy. Something told me I was not 
alone, that there was some one, but where, I could 
not tell. The feeling increased, though I tried to 
pass it off as due to the darkness and my nerves. 

Then suddenly I saw the flash of a match a few 
feet in front of me. If I had not been looking at the 
very spot, I should have missed it. But I saw the 
flare, lasting but a second. In that space of time 
I saw the outline of an arm, as the man cupped his 
hands to light a cigarette. Then the flame died 
out and left only the red spot of a cigarette pointed 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 


151 


low against the ground. There, in front of me, some 
one hidden in the shadow of another bush had bro¬ 
ken the monotony by lighting a cigarette. 

I hardly knew what to do. The fact that there 
was another person in the yard was something I 
had not expected. He must have felt perfectly 
safe, with no fear of being observed. His lighting 
a cigarette showed that. I wondered how it was 
that he had neither seen nor heard me, as I came 
round the house. If I had come from the front, 
he would have seen me, and without doubt I would 
have run right into him. But I was sure he had 
no suspicion he was not alone in the yard. His 
presence troubled me. For a second I wondered 
if he were the person that had caused the girl to 
signal to Bartley. I decided that he was not; for, 
though I watched the black shape by the bush, 
nothing moved, and I heard no sound. 

What to do, was the question. I had a gun, 
but shooting was not to be thought of. He might 
even be some member of the police, for all I knew. 
Yet I doubted this; for the police, so far as I was 
aware, were not watching the house. I tried to 
make up my mind what to do. Should I creep up 
and seize the man? Still, if I did that, and there 
were some one in the house, it might warn the per- 


152 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


son whom we were after. I knew that Bartley had 
not expected any one would be in the yard. It 
was the house he was interested in. 

My eyes strained through the darkness, trying to 
make out the figure ahead of me. Becoming better 
accustomed to the shadow, I could just make out, 
once in a while, the faint outline of the body. Like 
myself, he was waiting silently—for what? The 
cigarette must have gone out, for I no longer saw 
the red tip. After a while I saw the figure disengage 
itself from the shadow and move toward the front 
of the house. As it melted into the blackness, I 
lost sight of it. 

I half rose to follow, when suddenly from around 
the side of the house I heard the sound of feet 
crunching on the gravel of the walk. Some one 
was running—running rapidly. I half turned, and 
at that second there loomed out of the darkness 
coming from the back of the house the figure of a 
man. He was half bent over, head down, running 
as fast as he could, as if some one was after him. 
All this I observed in the mere flash of a second; the 
next moment he stumbled against me, as I started to 
rise. He was going so fast that, as he struck my 
legs, he fell rolling over and over on the grass. 

With a quick leap I was on him, seizing him 
by his coat, which was the first thing my hand felt 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 


153 


The force of his fall pulled me over on him, and 
for several moments we rolled back and forth on 
the grass. Perhaps he had been more surprised 
than I had been, for it took him several seconds 
to realize that some one was trying to hold him. 
Then, as the fact struck him, he began to struggle 
to loosen my grasp. 

In the darkness it was almost impossible to see 
where to get a strong hold. My hand fastened on 
his arm, but he shook it off; I clasped one leg, but 
a sudden kick in my side forced me to let go. For 
a few moments we struggled, neither able to get a 
firm grip. That the man only wished to get away, 
I understood. Time after time my grip held him, 
only to be broken. And then it dawned upon me, it 
was only a question of a moment, before his superior 
strength would overcome me. One of his hands, 
slipping over my shoulder, had fastened around my 
throat, and though I tried to shake it off, I was not 
able. 

Suddenly he rose, shaking off my grip around his 
waist, and as I struggled to my feet, his fist shot out 
and took me behind the ear. The blow was a ter¬ 
rific one, though it did not reach me fully, but it 
stung. The force was great enough to throw me 
to my knees and in falling, the man managed to 
break my grip. Taking advantage of the fact that 


154 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


he was free, he started on a run. The entire strug¬ 
gle had taken place without a word, only the forced 
breathing of us both had broken the silence. 

I rose to my feet, and started after the figure 
which I could just make out ahead. He had gained 
about twenty yards, and instead of going to the 
front of the house, circled around a tree and ran to 
the back. It struck me he was running as if he 
was familiar with the grounds. That gave him a 
better advantage, for though I followed as fast as 
I could, yet I stumbled again and again and once al¬ 
most fell over a bush. As I ran, I wondered what 
had become of Thayer and Bartley. If the man 
had come around, as it seemed, from the other side 
of the house, Thayer should have seen him. 

My unfamiliarity with the grounds, made it im¬ 
possible to gain on the man ahead of me. He ran, 
circling around the bushes and the trees, but always 
going for the rear of the yard. I followed as fast as 
I could, having difficulty in keeping him in sight 
because of the darkness. That he knew I was fol¬ 
lowing, I had no doubt, though as far as I could 
see he did not turn his head. 

At the end of the yard, was a large building used, 
no doubt, for a garage. In the darker shadow of 
its side, I lost the man for a second. In fact, when 
I reached its side I could not tell for a moment 



A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 


155 


where he had gone. I stopped, and listened, won¬ 
dering if he had found some hiding place. Then 
I heard the sound of his running footsteps, breaking 
through the brush in the next field. 

There was no fence back of the building, and 1 
found myself in a field. A field with high grass, and 
small shrubs, with vines that plucked at my feet, 
tangling me as I tried to run. Though I no longer 
could see the man, I knew that he was somewhere in 
front of me. I could hear the breaking of twigs, 
the sound he made as he lashed his way through 
the tangled underbrush. He was still running, 
and there was no doubt that he knew the ground, 
a fact that gave him a great advantage. 

Losing ground at almost every step, because I 
had to run slower, I followed across the large field, 
then over a stone wall into another field. Here I 
gained a bit on him, for suddenly I saw the outline of 
his figure ahead of me; saw it but for a moment as 
he climbed over a second stone wall. But when I 
got over the wall, once more the figure had vanished. 
I listened carefully, and thinking I heard him 
ahead of me, started through the field of high grass. 
Coming to another wall, I climbed it, and listened 
again. This time I heard nothing, only the usual 
sounds of the night. 

There seemed little doubt he had managed to 


156 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


escape, but in what direction was the problem. 
First I wondered if he had circled me, and headed 
back to the house. I decided however, that inso¬ 
much as he knew the house was watched, he would 
not be likely to return. No doubt he had gone 
ahead of me. So, not running this time, I groped 
my way through the field into another, and then 
reached a small hill covered with trees. As I 
lurched against the first one, it dawned on me that 
I was lost. 

I tried to figure out how many fields I had come 
through, and the direction of the house. It was 
somewhere back of me, but as I decided this, I 
realized that, in the darkness, I had turned again 
and again, and could not be sure in what direction 
the house lay. It was not very far away, that I 
knew, but just where puzzled me. Leaning against 
a small tree, I tried to find a light in some house, 
that would give me my direction. But there was 
not a light anywhere in sight. Listening, the only 
sound that came to my ears was the wind in the 
trees around me. Above a few stars showed 
through the thick clouds, and on all sides stretched 
the darkness. There was no doubt I was lost. 

I decided it was no longer any use to endeavor to 
find the man I had followed. By this time he must 
be far away. The thing for me to do was to get 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 


157 


back to the house. Slowly I retraced my steps, till 
I bumped into a stone wall, no doubt the one I had 
climbed over last. I followed it for some yards, 
reaching another wall over which I climbed, then 
crossed the field to still another wall. After fifteen 
or more minutes, I saw that I had only complicated 
my problem, for I had climbed enough walls to have 
reached the house. Instead, I found myself in an¬ 
other field which, when I crossed, ended in still an¬ 
other wall. 

A little weary, I leaned against the stones to get 
my wind. For a while, I tried to peer through the 
darkness, hoping to catch sight of a light somewhere, 
the friendly sign of a house. Then, as I saw noth¬ 
ing, I began to be aware of how utterly alone I was. 
The darkness seemed to stretch away into infinity. 
There was not a sound, I was alone under the dark 
clouds in an almost silent world. A little feeling 
of depression came over me, which I shook off at 
once. I reassured myself by the thought, that even 
if I did not find the house, it would not harm me to 
be out in the fields till morning. 

I decided that wandering around aimlessly, as I 
had been doing was of no avail. The more I 
walked, the more bewildered I became, and I was 
scratched and torn by the briers I had encountered. 
But one thought struck me. The wall on which my 


158 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

hand rested, was a little higher than the field, and 
the field itself, was on the sloping side on a hill. 
Climbing on the wall, to my joy I saw far down 
below me, a light in the window of a house. There 
must be a road near there. Getting my bearings, I 
started in the direction of the house, the ground 
sloping gently away beneath my feet, and crossed 
through at least four fields, when I suddenly saw the 
road before me. 

When I reached it, I saw my troubles were not 
over. It was a road all right, but it was also the 
intersection of a cross road and instead of one road 
to follow, there were four directions to choose from 
—four roads all leading different ways. I searched 
for a sign post, found it, and striking a match, I saw 
that the directions had faded out. Going back to 
the center of the cross roads, I stood a moment 
thinking. There were four roads before me, and 
I was sure one ran into the town—but which one 
of the four? 

Suddenly, I heard far back of me, the sound of 
an automobile. It was coming very fast, and even 
as I turned in the direction of the sound, I saw its 
flaming lights as it swept around a bend in the road. 
Here was aid. It approached rapidly, and the 
lights became brighter, till where I stood was one 
mass of light. Wishing them to see me and stop, I 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 


159 


stood in the center of the road, knowing that they 
could not fail to observe me and would stop. The 
car was coming at a terrific speed, swaying from 
side to side. To my surprise, though the lights 
shone on me, the automobile did not appear to be 
slacking its speed. As the car swept toward me, 
I saw that it did not intend to stop, and, what is 
more, it did not intend to turn out. In a second it 
would sweep over the place where I was standing. 
There was no time to pick a place in which to land, 
and I threw myself out of the way, falling and 
tumbling down the side of a ditch, till I brought 
up against the side bank. With a roar the car 
passed over the spot where I had been standing a 
second before. 

With every bone in my body sore, I picked my¬ 
self up; limping back to the road I could hardly 
believe what had taken place. Whoever had been 
in the car must have seen me; in fact, could not 
have helped seeing me. I had been in the center of 
the four roads, bathed in a perfect stream of light. 
They not only had not stopped, but they had had 
no intention of stopping. Instead, they had tried 
to run me down. If I had not jumped, the heavy 
car would have struck and killed me. And there 
was no doubt in my mind that whoever was driving 
the car had deliberately tried to kill me. 


160 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

My eyes had been blinded by the light, and I 
had been unable to observe the car in detail. I 
had not been able to see any one in it, as the car 
swept by while I was rolling in the ditch. But I 
knew the direction in which it had gone, and I re¬ 
solved to go the same way myself, figuring it would 
bring me to the village. 

A trifle shaken by my experience and with an 
ankle that pained a little, I followed the winding 
road which was thick with dust, that rose in clouds, 
as I shuffled through it. I walked slowly and in¬ 
stinctively kept to the side of the road. As I went 
along, I tried to figure out why the driver of the 
car had attempted to run over me. It had been a 
deliberate attempt, and it dawned on me that I 
must have been recognized, as I stood in the light. 
That puzzled me, for there was hardly any one in 
the village that had seen me. Then it flashed over 
me that I had been well studied, as I sat in the 
witness chair at the inquest. If those in the car had 
desired to kill me—and I decided they had—then it 
must be because they thought I knew something. 

I walked, it seemed, about an hour, though it 
must have been much less, when I saw before me the 
lights of the village. They were a welcome sight, 
as they sparkled through the darkness, about a 
mile away. Then, as I came round a bend in the 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 


161 


road, I found myself before Thayer’s house. As 
I limped up the walk to the door, I saw that the 
library was a blaze of light. Reaching the veranda, 
I found the door closed, gave a ring, and in a second 
Thayer’s red face peered forth. He gave a cry 
of welcome when he saw me, and I hobbled into the 
library after him. 

At my appearance Bartley, with a startled ex¬ 
clamation, came to my side. I must have been a 
sad-looking object. The blue suit, which had been 
nicely pressed when I went out, was a mass of 
wrinkles. It was torn in many places, covered with 
dust; and, as I went over to a large wall mirror and 
gazed at myself in the glass, I hardly recognized the 
figure that was reflected. My face was covered 
with dirt, my hair was a tangled mass, one eye was 
half closed, and there was a great bruise by the side 
of my cheek. My clothes were ruined; the trousers 
torn in several places, and the breast pocket was 
gone from the coat. It hardly seemed possible that 
all the damage had been caused by my rolling in 
the ditch when I jumped from the path of the auto¬ 
mobile. 

Bartley studied me with a very surprised look 
on his face. If I had not been weary, perhaps the 
sight of Thayer’s amazed wonder, as he gazed on 
me with his mouth wide open, would have made me 


162 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


laugh. But I did not feel like laughing. I sud¬ 
denly realized that if there was a spot in my body 
that did not ache, I did not know where it was. 

“What have you been doing, Pelt? ,, came Bartley’s 
voice. 

I wearily sank into a chair, throwing my crushed 
hat on the table. Then in a tired voice I asked 
Thayer for something to drink, saying I needed it. 
He hurried from the room, returning with some 
Scotch, and after drinking it I felt a shade better. 

Rather slowly I told them my story. Bartley 
listened with an amused air, but Thayer hung on my 
words, as though they were romance. But when I 
came to the story of the automobile and what had 
followed, the amusement faded from Bartley’s face. 
When I finished, Thayer burst forth: 

“My Lord, John; they tried to kill him.” 

Bartley slowly nodded his head, saying there was 
no doubt of it. Then he turned to me: 

“I presume you had no time to see who was in the 
car—or anything about the car itself?” 

I assured him I had no time to observe either 
the car or who might have been in it. I was sure 
it was a large car, and the body was of some dark 
color, but not black. The whole thing had taken 
place in such a short time, however, I had been un- 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 163 

able to see any one. In fact, there had been no time 
to look. 

“One thing seems sure,” Bartley said slowly: 
“You must have been recognized by the persons in 
the car when the light fell upon you. There is no 
doubt they tried to run over you. If they had, you 
would have been killed. And that proves another 
thing.” 

“What’s that?” came Thayer’s eager voice. 

It proves that they wanted Pelt out of the way. 
If so, it’s because they think he knows something, 
or has seen something that will connect some one 
with Culver’s murder. But, so far as I know, Pelt 
has nothing of the sort up his sleeve.” He gave me 
an inquiring look, and I answered that I had told 
him all I knew. 

“But,” said Thayer, and in his eagerness his 
words piled upon one another: “Why, that would 
mean that Culver’s murderer is in the town.” 

“Not necessarily,” Bartley replied. “It may 
mean that; then, again, it looks as though there 
were something besides the murder that is of impor¬ 
tance. Anyway, some one wanted to get Pelt out 
of the way.” 

After a pause he suggested that I needed a good 
night’s rest and a bath. But I insisted that I 


164 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


wanted to hear what he had discovered in the house. 
He protested that it could wait until morning. 
Then, seeing that I was eager, he said he would sat¬ 
isfy my curiosity. He waited until Thayer, who 
had slipped out of the room, returned, which he did 
in several moments, bringing with him three tall 
glasses in which the ice tinkled, as he approached. 
After his drink, Bartley began. 

He had gone into the house through the window 
the girl had left unlocked, finding himself in a din¬ 
ing room that opened into the hall. But—and he 
half smiled as he said it—he had knocked a chair 
over, which had made a great racket. He knew 
that it would warn any one on that floor, and he 
darted for the door to the hall. The hall was 
empty, and he was in the library just in time to hear 
some one running on the veranda. By the time he 
got outdoors, he could see no one; and, Thayer 
joining him in a moment, he returned to the house. 

I turned to Thayer: “Did you see anything?” 

The writer gave a little smile. “Did I? Why, 
Pelt, I got behind a tree and watched that house, 
and I saw scores of things—at least it seemed so. I 
thought I was there hours, and I decided it was 
better to write adventure stories than to live them. 
You know”—and he grinned—“the dark night, the 
villain, the trusty and brave hero—only I did not 


A NIGHT OF SUSPENSE 


165 


feel like a hero, I felt like a fool. Then all at once 
I saw some one run down the walk to the main gate. 
I followed behind the hedge, but he had a start on 
me, a big start. When I reached the gate, there 
was no one in sight.” 

“That must have been the man you saw under 
the bush,” came Bartley’s suggestion. “The man 
in the house ran around the side where Thayer had 
been, while he was at the gate.” 

Thayer nodded. “That must be it. I only saw 
the figure of one man, and he was going through the 
gate. Never saw the other man at all. About a 
moment later I heard Bartley call my name, and I 
joined him.” 

When they entered the house, Bartley called the 
girl, and she told him what had aroused her. She 
seemed to have had plenty of pluck, for, instead of 
staying in her room, she had waited with a revolver. 
She explained why she had done this, by saying she 
knew she would have been unable to hear any one 
in the darkness at the head of the stairs, in her room 
with the door locked, and she felt perfectly safe 
with the gun. At last she heard the sound in the 
hall, went to her room and fixed her window shade 
and the light, as agreed. 

I asked Bartley if he had any idea what the 
thieves were after, but he shook his head. He did 


166 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


add, however, that there was something in the li¬ 
brary they were after. Then, as he rose, he 
said that he had called the police, and they had sent 
a man up to spend the night at the house. 

“I gave a twinge, as I rose, for I was sorer than I 
had thought. Then, while Thayer turned out the 
lights and locked the door, Bartley and I went up 
the stairs to our rooms. As we stood by our doors, 
Thayer joined us. He gave one look at me, then 
grinned, saying: 

“You are a pretty object, Pelt.” 

Then, as we entered the rooms and said good 
night, he paused to add—and there was a weary 
tone in his voice—“John, if this is a sample of what 
you call a quiet day’s work, then not for mine.” 


CHAPTER X 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 

T HE hot bath I took was no doubt the reason 
why I was so late in getting down to break¬ 
fast next morning. In fact, when I 
reached the dining room neither Bartley nor Thayer 
was in sight, and the housekeeper informed me that 
they had finished breakfast several hours before. 
She told me that she would have breakfast ready in 
a few moments and would serve it in the sun room. 
Giving me the paper, she went out into the kitchen, 
where I could hear her busying herself with the 
dishes. 

I went into the sun room and sank into a chair 
by the open window. It was another beautiful day, 
the sun bright, with a breeze from off the distant 
hills cooling the air. The mountains stood clear 
against the background of a blue sky, a sky in 
which only a few fleecy clouds could be seen. In a 
far-off field a few cattle were standing, half asleep, 
under the shade of a tree. 

For a while I glanced through the window, then 
turned to the paper. It was only a small, four-page 
167 


168 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

country sheet, issued every evening. The story of 
the murder filled almost all the front page, with a 
rather weirdly written account of the arrest of 
young Sheldon. But, after I had read the story, 
there was nothing that I had not known. The boy 
still persisted in refusing to say why he had left the 
dance, and where he had gone. He admitted hid¬ 
ing the pocketbook, and his reason was that which 
Bartley had given—fear. He denied that he even 
knew Culver and said that he had never seen him. 

When the housekeeper brought in the breakfast, 
I threw the paper to one side. I had almost fin¬ 
ished when Thayer came into the room, greeting 
me with a smile. He sank into a chair, lighted a 
cigarette, and then asked how I felt. After I had 
informed him that, save for feeling a little sore in 
places, I was all right, he told me that Bartley had 
left a message for me. 

I was to go down to the jail to see the young 
man Kelly had arrested, and, if possible, get him to 
tell where he had been the night of the murder. 
Thayer said that Bartley wished me to remember he 
believed the boy told the truth regarding finding the 
pocketbook, but there must be a reason why he was 
afraid to tell where he had been. I half protested 
to Thayer that, if the youth had refused to tell the 
police—whom, no doubt, he knew—he would not 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 


169 


tell me. But Thayer replied that Bartley had said 
that the fact that the boy did not know me might 
be the very reason why he would answer any ques¬ 
tions I asked. 

Thayer busied himself with the paper till I had 
finished breakfast; then, when I rose, he said he 
would go down to the town with me. I told him I 
thought I would walk and get the car which I had 
left in the garage. Telling the housekeeper what 
time he wished lunch, he joined me a few moments 
later on the lawn. 

It was a shorter walk to the town than I thought, 
and in a few moments we were standing in front of 
the rambling courthouse. Opening the door of the 
police station, the first person whom I saw was 
Kelly, seated at a desk. He greeted me and in re¬ 
ply to my question said the chief was in his office. 
Pushing open the door, we entered, Kelly following. 

The chief was reading a newspaper, his feet on 
the chair before him. An old corncob pipe was be¬ 
tween his lips, and the air was blue with smoke from 
the cheap tobacco he was consuming. As we en¬ 
tered, he turned and bought his feet down with a 
bang upon the floor, greeting me a bit facetiously by 
quoting: “ Ts this a spirit I see before me?’ ” 

I grinned and assured him it was not; then I 
asked him if I could see the young man. He was 


170 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


perfectly agreeable, but said it would be of very 
little use, since the police had done their best to get 
the boy to talk. He turned to Thayer. 

“Kelly thinks the boy committed the murder. 
Still”—and he slowly shook his head—“I don’t 
know. Don’t seem reasonable a young kid like that 
would kill a man.” 

“But where did he get the pocketbook?” broke 
in Kelly’s voice, and I could see from his manner 
that he and the chief must have argued the question 
back and forth with little result. 

“Darned if I know,” was the answer, as the chief 
rose and hunted through his desk for some keys. 
Finding them, he motioned for me to follow him. 
Thayer said he would wait till I returned, and I 
followed the chief through the door. We walked 
past a few cells, for there were not many, stopping 
in front of the last one. Inserting the key in the 
lock, the chief threw open the door, and, saying I 
could lock it and bring him the key when I finished, 
he retraced his steps down the small corridor. 

In the cell on the cot was a young man of about 
nineteen. He looked up eagerly, as I entered, and 
I could see that he had not taken his plight in a 
philosophical manner. His hair was uncombed, fall¬ 
ing in disorder over his forehead; his eyes were red, 
as though, during the night, he had been crying. 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 


171 


There was no doubt he was afraid, yet his face was 
honest, and his eyes, though anxious, met mine 
bravely. 

Seating myself on the cot by his side, I told him 
who I was and explained about Bartley. To my 
surprise he had heard of him, having read of some 
case he had solved. I told him why Bartley had 
sent me down, explaining, as best I could, the posi¬ 
tion he was placing himself in by refusing to talk. 
I did my best to make plain that all we wished to 
do was to help him, stressing the point that he might 
have some little fact which in itself would aid us 
in solving the crime. 

When I ended I thought at first he would say 
nothing. But after a while he raised his head, giv¬ 
ing me a searching look. As if reassured by the 
look I returned, he said suddenly: 

"I guess maybe you are right. I don’t know any¬ 
thing about the murder, but that detective, Kelly, 
got me right away by saying I did.” 

“You should have told him why you left the 
dance,” was my reply. 

For a moment the boy was silent, then he said 
slowly: “I was afraid to.” 

“Afraid—what of? If you had done nothing, 
why should you have been afraid?” 

All at once as though he had decided to make a 


172 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

clean breast of it, he turned and asked eagerly: 
“Will you try to fix it up, if I tell the truth?” 

I informed him I would do everything that I 
could, assuring him that, if he had not done any¬ 
thing, there would be nothing to “fix up,” as he 
put it. 

“Well,” he said, “I was afraid of my father. 
You see, at the dance one of my friends called me 
up and said I could get a bottle of hooch, if I 
wanted it.” 

He paused and his face turned red. 

“I thought it would be a great joke to say nothing 
to any one, go out and get it, and when I returned 
to slip it into the punch.” 

At my surprised look, he said in a disgusted 
voice: “A great idea, wasn’t it—a big fool idea of 
a joke? Well, anyway, I slipped out and started 
my car. I am not going to tell you where I went 
to get the hooch—you don’t want that, do you?” 

I told him I thought that end of it could be man¬ 
aged without trouble, provided the party who gave 
him the hooch would corroborate his story. I felt 
sure the chief or Kelly would take care of that with¬ 
out making trouble for any one. 

He continued: “Well, I had to go up, by the 
Yard place, that house where the murder was com¬ 
mitted. There was a big hill just before you reach 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 


173 


it, and, when I got opposite the house, I thought I 
saw the flash of a light. That surprised me, for I 
knew the house was closed. I did not stop, and 
when I got about three hundred yards past it I got 
another jolt-” 

“You did?” I interrupted. 

“Yes, I saw a car parked over in a field. I 
thought it was a strange place to see a car, but did 
not stop. Went on a ways, got the hooch, and 
started back. When I reached the spot where the 
car had been, I slowed down to get a better look at 
it. The car was gone.” He paused for a moment, 
then added: “And it was right there I found the 
pocketbook.” 

“Where was it?” I asked with interest. 

“In the grass at the side of the road, right where 
the tracks of the car were. You see, I slowed down 
to catch a look at the car, and my lights were turned 
into the grass. It was there I saw the pocketbook. 
Naturally I stopped, picked it up and opened it. 
I saw by the cards inside to whom it belonged. 
There was a little money and nothing else. Natur¬ 
ally enough, when I passed the house, I looked to 
see if there was a light, but the place was dark. So 
I returned to the party.” 

He paused again, then went on. “When I got 
back, I suddenly realized what a fool trick it would 



174 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

be to put that hooch in the punch—me a guest in 
the house; so I hid it up under the bed. The next 
morning they told me of the murder, and I got 
scared. I had intended, of course, to give the 
pocketbook to Culver. But when they said he had 
been found dead in that house, I got scared.” 

He gave a little sickly grin, then burst out: 
“You see, Mr. Pelt, they said no one knew who 
killed him, and there was I with his pocketbook, 
and I had been up on that road. I thought no one 
would believe me, and I knew it would make no dif¬ 
ference if they did not know about my finding the 
thing, so I hid it. You know the rest of the yarn.” 

But I ventured: “Why under heavens did you 
not tell Kelly?” 

The boy’s face reddened, but he said: “Two 
reasons: I was afraid they would think I knew 
something about the murder; then, again, I would 
have to tell of going after the booze, and I was 
afraid of my father.” 

“Your father?” came my surprised voice. 

He nodded. “Yes, my father. He is one of the 
officials of the Anti-Saloon League—death on booze. 
I knew he would about kill me if the story got out, 
and I was afraid to tell. No matter what I did, tell 
it or keep still, I was in trouble.” 

As he became silent, I rapidly ran the story over 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 


175 


in my mind. It seemed straight enough, and from 
the boy’s manner I believed he was telling the truth. 
His explanation of why he left the dance was plau¬ 
sible enough, and his desire to place the liquor in 
the punch was one of those fool tricks that certain 
young people play, it seemed logical enough, and I 
did not blame him for being afraid when he heard 
about the murder. Culver had been murdered, and 
he had his pocketbook. What was worse, he had 
been near the house around the time the crime was 
committed. No wonder a boy, under such circum¬ 
stances, was afraid. And I grinned at his explana¬ 
tion of his fear of his father. 

Rising, I told him I would tell the chief and Kelly 
what he had told me and endeavor to have them 
“hush up” the fact of his going after the liquor. 
He thanked me, and, saying good by, I left him, re¬ 
turning to the chief’s office. 

The three men were engaged in a conversation 
when I entered the room, but they turned eagerly, 
as I closed the door. Dropping into a chair, I re¬ 
peated what the boy had said. The big face of the 
chief wore an astonished look, as the story pro¬ 
gressed, but Kelly sat puffing on his pipe, his glance 
never leaving the floor. When I finished, the chief 
turned to his detective. 

“There is a booze joint up that road, Kelly.” 


176 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


The detective nodded, then turned to me: “Two 
things will prove if the boy told the truth. First, 
if the man he got the stuff from corroborates him;, 
and secondly, if he can produce the hooch. You 
said he took it back to the party, but you did not 
tell us what he did with it.” 

I replied the boy had told me he placed it 
under the bed, but that I had no idea where it 
was now, or what he had done with it. I added 
that no doubt he could explain about it, if they 
asked him. 

The chief turned to the detective, as though to 
ask what he thought about the story. For a second 
their glances met, then Kelly said: “I want to be 
fair with the boy. His refusing to tell where he 
had been, and about finding the pocketbook, made 
me think he knew at least something about the 
murder. But I don’t know now. His story seems 
honest, and I think it can be checked up. But why 
did not the young fool tell me the yarn when I first 
saw him?” 

With a grin I replied that he was afraid of his 
father. By the smile that came over the faces of 
the two officials, I saw that the father was known 
to them, and that he must be a bit of a fanatic. 
Then I told them I had assured the boy they would 
keep that part of the story from the public in return 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 177 

for what he had told us concerning the rest of his 
experience. 

The chief nodded to this, saying that, if they 
could check up the story, he could take care of that 
part. He laughed, as he told us he knew the father, 
and that the boy had every reason to feel scared of 
what the father might say and do. 

I rose to go, but at the door I turned to ask if 
the chief had the pocketbook, and what was in it. 
He answered by saying that there was about sixty 
dollars, three cards, and a piece of torn paper with 
a lot of figures on it. Nothing of any importance, 
he assured me. Offering to show the contents to 
me, I said there was nothing of interest, and Thayer 
and I started for my car, which was in a near-by 
garage. 

When we returned to the house we found Bartley 
on the veranda, smoking a black cigar and with a 
book in his hand. He looked very cool in his white 
flannels, and he greeted us cheerfully. As we 
seated ourselves, he asked regarding my morning’s 
work. 

He said nothing till I finished, though he smiled 
when I told him the reason the boy had given for 
leaving the party. When I paused, he simply said: 
“It’s about what I thought, though there are several 
queer things in the story.” 


178 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


Seeing Thayer’s interested glance, he added: 
“I don’t mean the story itself, but the boy’s account 
of seeing a light in the house, and also the finding 
of the pocketbook. One might even think that who¬ 
ever killed Culver threw the pocketbook away either 
in rage, because he did not find what he wanted, or 
because he had hcped some one would find it and get 
into the mess the young man got into.” 

Turning to me, he asked what had been in the 
pocketbook. I told him it contained nothing of 
importance—three cards and some money. Then I 
rtmembered the torn piece of paper with figures on 
it. At the last, Bartley became interested and asked 
me if I had seen it. I shook my head, and with a 
little curious look on his face he picked up his book. 

After lunch Bartley remarked he would take the 
car and run down into the village. He had spent 
the morning in Culver’s house with the lawyer. 
Nothing had been found which would throw any 
light on where Culver had gone when he left town, 
or on the reason the house had been broken into dur¬ 
ing the night. The girl’s affairs were in a bad state, 
and there seemed to be hardly anything left. But 
he made no explanation, nor did he say very much, 
for that matter. Then, saying he hoped I would 
have a restful afternoon, he went around the house 
for his car. 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 


179 


I spent the afternoon in a porch swing, with a 
book—a book of high romance, adventure, a beau¬ 
tiful heroine and a brave hero. The plot was excit¬ 
ing and held me. As I read, I could hear the sound 
of Thayer’s typewriter coming through the open 
windows behind me, and I wondered if he were at 
work on a book. 

Under the spell of the yarn I was reading, the 
afternoon drifted away to oblivion, and it was almost 
five before Thayer, his writing over for the day, 
joined me. As he sank into a chair, he picked up 
the book which I had thrown aside and glanced at 
the title. Then, leaning back in his chair, he lighted 
a cigar and we started to talk. 

Thayer was evidently more interested in the mur¬ 
der of his neighbor than I had thought. He told 
me it had always struck him as strange that Culver 
should have shown so strongly that he did not care 
to associate with the people of the town. He, him¬ 
self, had only seen him a few times and had spoken 
to him once. He played a bit with the idea that per¬ 
haps Culver had some reason in going into seclusion, 
but did not try even to guess what it might be. 
He did say, with a smile, that the affair was more 
mysterious than any of the detective stories he had 
read. 

This set him off on another strain. He expressed 


180 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


his wonder that Bartley, with all his education and 
culture, his wide knowledge of books and psychol¬ 
ogy, should have chosen the profession of a criminal 
investigator. He asked me if I knew that Bartley 
was perhaps the best critic we had on French litera¬ 
ture of the eighteenth century, and if I understood 
just how deep was his knowledge of the literature 
of Europe? I replied I had a slight suspicion as 
to that, and with a shake of his head he expressed 
his wonder that a man with that knowledge should 
spend his time in solving crimes. 

At that moment we heard the sound of Bartley’s 
machine coming into the drive, and, as we looked, he 
stopped, after making a wide circle before the house. 
With a wave of his hand, he descended from his car 
and joined us on the veranda. After he had seated 
himself, Thayer said in a languid voice: 

“Well, mighty sleuth, did you find anything this 
afternoon?” 

Bartley laughed at his tone. I could tell from 
his manner that he was pleased over something, 
and I waited to discover what it might be. He 
turned to Thayer. “Billy, did you ever notice any 
cars stopping in front of Culver’s late at night?” 

The writer shook his head. “No, don’t think 
so; but, you know, I could hardly see them from my 
bedroom if they did. By date’ I presume you mean 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 


181 


around one or two in the morning. No chance 
for me to see them at that hour because I am one 
of those people that like their sleep.” 

He paused, gave a start, and then said slowly: 
“Come to think of it, John, though I never saw 
any, I have been wakened three or four times by 
the sound of a car starting down in the road there. 
I remember now I used to wonder where the cars 
were, and why they stopped here. This is a pretty 
quiet town, and there is very little of the late-party 
stuff here.” 

Bartley’s next communication was along a dif¬ 
ferent line. After lighting his pipe he said: “It’s 
a queer thing—what we think takes place, and what 
actually does happen. Now you, Thayer, and 
others, tell me that Culver never saw any one, no 
one ever came to his house; that there is nothing 
any one knows about him. But, as I said, a country 
town is a bad place for a man to try to hide what 
he is doing. Strangers are naturally looked over 
carefully; even the windows have eyes. I had an 
idea that all Kelly had to do was sit still and 
wait for people to come in and tell what they knew 
about Culver. They have started to do so.” 

“What did he hear?” came Thayer’s earnest 
voice. 

“Well, one farmer, who takes milk down to the 


182 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


station every night, returning about one o’clock, or a 
little later, in the morning, walked into the police 
station, and informed the officers that on four or 
five occasions when he passed the Culver place on 
his return to his farm, there was a car parked before 
the house.” 

“It must have been the car I heard,” replied 
Thayer. 

Bartley nodded. “Yes, and your hearing the 
sound of the engine, as it went away, bears out the 
farmer’s story.” He paused and went on: “Then 
a while ago—the man is not sure of the date—an¬ 
other farmer saw a car, with a Canadian license 
on it, parked in front of the house where Culver 
was murdered. This farmer came in and told that 
fact to Kelly late this afternoon.” 

Bartley paused again, but since Thayer and my¬ 
self said nothing, he continued: “So you see that 
though Culver, as you say, saw no one, yet some¬ 
body did go in to see him—and very late at night 
at that. The lonely house, deserted and boarded 
up, that no one ever went to, as Kelly put it, did 
have some one interested in it, and also late at night, 
when most people were abed. That’s not all.” 

He gave a grin at the eagerness with which we 
both asked what else he had found. Lighting his 
pipe, which had gone out, he said: “I went into the 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 


183 


bank this afternoon. They very kindly showed me 
the statement of Culver’s account. He had a good 
deal of money there from the time he came, and at 
various times he made large deposits. They were 
put in almost up to the time he went away. Sud¬ 
denly he began to draw the money out, until the 
day before he went away he had but three hundred 
and seventy-four dollars in the bank. And”—he 
paused a moment, then added gravely—“his de¬ 
posits were all made in the late spring and summer 
months, not in winter.” 

Puzzled, as though not understanding what he 
was driving at, Thayer asked: “What do you mean 
by that, John?” 

“Simply this: It seems significant to me that, 
when the spring came, after the roads were good, 
Culver should every few weeks add large deposits to 
his account in the bank. This ran through the 
last summer, into the early fall, then stopped, start¬ 
ing again the last of April and running through to 
the time he went away. Now, it seems to me, in 
this may be found the reason for Culver’s coming 
here. It may even be the answer to what he did.” 

His friend’s face was a study, and, as he said 
nothing, I asked: “Do you think he was running 
booze?” 

Bartley slowly shook his head. “I can’t tell, 


184 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


Pelt,” was the reply. “But the tact that he never 
deposited this money till after the roads had dried 
up, and when they became impassable he made no 
more deposits, makes me think he was engaged in 
something illegal. It may not have been booze; 
that takes a good deal of space. It may have been 
_ 

He left the sentence unfinished, and I inquired: 
“What?” 

Instead of answering, he pulled from his pocket 
an envelope. “Here is something else. Pelt said 
that in the pocketbook the boy found was a piece 
of paper with figures on it. He did not think it 
worth even looking at, but here is a copy of it. 
It was tucked away behind the lining of the pocket- 
book. 

He pulled from an envelope a piece of paper and 
without a word handed it to me. Thayer bent over 
to look. It was a copy, Bartley said, of the paper 
found in the pocketbook. But, as I looked at it, 
my bewilderment increased. Apparently it was 
nothing but a crazy mass of figures, without mean¬ 
ing or purpose. And the paper was not all there, 
one-third of it had been torn away. As I looked, 
it seemed almost absurd to attach the importance 
to it that Bartley seemed to. One needed only to 
look at his face to see that he thought it was impor- 


A MESSAGE IN CIPHER 185 

tant. With a look at his face, I glanced back at 
the paper: 

The Psyc. 

- 2 

-= 29.22.4.I7.5.I5.22. 

35 

(1000) + 1 (7) 

. 24 = 0.4 

16 

— = 5.6.7.20.30. 


For a while I studied it, becoming more and more 
bewildered. Finally Thayer raised his eyes from 
the paper in my hand and exploded: “What the 
devil do you think it means?” 

Bartley’s voice was grave, as he replied: “That 
I cannot say as yet. It’s a cipher of some kind— 
a very clever one. I thought I knew most of them, 
but this is different from any I ever saw. But I 
think-” 

“Yes,” I broke in on him, “what?” 

“I think, perhaps, we have the explanation of the 
attempts to break into Culver’s house. That mes¬ 
sage is incomplete. I have the idea that somewhere 
in his house is the missing portion of it—that the 
attempts to enter the house were attempts to find 
the other part.” 


+ 3 , 

— = 26.34.29.4 

25 
4- 4 

— =11.10.21.22 
24 

(50) 



CHAPTER XI 


BARTLEY DISCUSSES THE CRIME 

O my surprise Thayer started to laugh, and, 



as I turned in amazement to look at him, 


he said: “J°lm, maybe you are right, 
but it strikes me funny. Here I was telling you I 
wanted a detective story, but all the plots were old. 
Now comes this crime, and, as you go on, out pops 
the oldest thing of all—a secret message in a code. 
It made me laugh to think that if I put it in a story, 
some one would say ‘old stuff/ and here it pops up 
in this case.” 

He reached out his hand for the paper and studied 
it for a while, turning it from side to side. His 
brow knit, as he gazed at it, but in the end, slowly 
shaking his head, he handed it back without a word. 
Bartley took it from him and replaced it in his 
billfold. 

“You know/’ he said, “this code is not so simple 
a thing as I thought. I know most of the ciphers 
that have been used, but this is different. The 
figures, of course, are used in the place of letters. 
You noticed you have for each word three sets of 


186 


BARTLEY DISCUSSES CRIME 187 


figures, with sometimes a plus sign, then again a 
minus, or both, and some even have none. Now, 
they tell us that the letter ‘e’ is the one we use most 
often, then comes ‘a,’ and ‘o,’ or T. But ‘e’ is so 
often the letter that comes in almost every word, 
that, if one can pick it out, you may be able to 
figure the rest. But in this thing the code seems 
to change with every word. It will take time to 
decipher.” 

Thayer gave a sigh. “This affair gets more and 
more mysterious.” 

“Oh, no,” said Bartley quickly. “We know a 
great deal more than we did yesterday.” 

“We do,” drawled his friend. “I must say I am 
glad to hear it. I was under the impression we 
knew nothing except that the man was killed.” 

Laughing at his tone, Bartley informed him that 
we did know more. To start with, Culver had not 
been the man of seclusion that people thought. The 
automobiles parked outside his house late at night, 
together with the fact that he had retired to the 
country town, all suggested that he had a reason 
for being in seclusion. This seclusion was not so 
great, however, but that some people saw him se¬ 
cretly after the village was asleep. The manner 
in which his deposits were made in the bank, the 
fact that they were made in the summer only, told: 


188 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


that he was receiving large sums of money—perhaps 
from some undertaking which was not legal. Bart¬ 
ley assured us that there was no doubt Culver had 
intended to disappear silently. But right here came 
another mysterious thing. 

Bartley said he was unable to understand why 
the man had returned. All evidence pointed to the 
fact that, having withdrawn all his money from the 
bank, he never intended to return. But he had re¬ 
turned, and the question was: Why? What had 
caused him to return? What message had he re¬ 
ceived that brought him back only to meet some 
one in the old house he had bought, and in the meet¬ 
ing find his death? Where he had been in the weeks 
after he left the town, was still another mystery. 

“It does not strike me,” said Thayer, “that you 
know such a whale of a lot. You have not the 
slightest idea who killed him.” 

“No,” came the cheerful reply, “not the slightest. 
But you see the thing I want to discover first is 
the motive for the crime. The police, as a rule, go 
seeking some one to place the crime on. I try to 
find out why a person was killed, what was the 
reason. Then it’s not so hard to find some one who 
had a motive for the murder. In this affair there 
Is no motive in sight—as yet. It’s like a dense 
fog, but it’s starting to lift.” 


BARTLEY DISCUSSES CRIME 189 

“Do you think,” I asked, “he was running 
booze?” 

“That’s the second time you have asked the 
same question, Pelt,” came his reply. “I don’t 
think he was doing that. It might look so on the 
surface, due to the fact he never deposited checks 
of any size until after the roads were open. How¬ 
ever, the main hooch trail from Canada is through 
New York, not through Vermont. Again, this is 
hardly the place for a man to have his headquarters 
if he were running booze. He might have been 
mixed up in it, but I think it was something else. 
What I want to do is to get the rest of that paper 
—the missing part.” 

“Small chance of that,” grunted Thayer—“small 
chance to find about two inches of a scrap of paper.” 

“You think so?” smiled Bartley. “I know where 
it is.” 

“You do?” came the surprised question. 

“I have a pretty good idea,” was the cool reply. 
“That missing bit of paper perhaps caused the at¬ 
tempts to break into Culver’s house. Find it, de¬ 
cipher the message, and you get the motive of the 
crime. Get the motive, and it may not be so hard to 
find the murderer.” 

“Very simple indeed,” was Thayer’s comment. 
“But I don’t see it at all.” 


190 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

“Oh!” responded Bartley. “There is even more 
in it than that. Culver must have received the 
message before he left town, or else he returned to 
the house secretly, while you thought he was away, 
to get it. Either he was in possession of it before 
he went away, or else he returned. If it’s the first, 
as I think, it proves that whatever it was, it could 
wait, something that he could take his time about. 
Then suddenly something went wrong; he no longer 
could afford to wait. He returned and was killed.” 

The housekeeper came to the door at this point 
and announced that the evening dinner was ready. 
We rose to our feet, I in the lead. Not till dinner 
was over did any of us break the silence; and it 
was Thayer who then asked: “John, is it to-day or 
to-morrow that the brother is presumed to arrive 
from abroad ?” 

Bartley informed him that it was the next day 
and went on to say that the girl did not know the 
steamer by which he was coming. There had been 
only the information he was coming and the time. 
Thayer suggested that it would be a shock to him 
to hear of his brother’s death, and Bartley agreed; 
but added that, so far as he could find out, the two 
brothers had not seen each other for some years. 
Conversation died away again, and after a while 
Bartley took from his pocket the piece of paper with 


BARTLEY DISCUSSES CRIME 191 


the figures, and began to study it. I could see that 
it puzzled him; and, though he made some calcula¬ 
tions on another piece of paper, yet the result did 
not satisfy him. Suddenly he turned to me. 

“Pelt, where do you think the other part of this 
paper will be found?” 

I thought a moment, suggesting that it must 
be in the house, adding that on first thought I would 
have said in the safe. But inasmuch as the safe 
had been opened, and it was not there, I did not 
know. Bartley said nothing in reply, studying the 
mass of figures before him. Then he gave a laugh. 
“I have been wondering just why this code started 
off with letters. You see the first thing on it is, 
‘The Psyc.’ Now, it dawns on me that perhaps 
that was added afterward, and was not on the origi¬ 
nal message, as received. IPs all done with a pen 
except that. Let us guess that Culver wrote the 
letters himself with a typewriter, simply as a hint 
where the other part might be. If so, that’s the 

clew. And I wonder-A sudden keen look came 

over his face, and rising to his feet, he said: “Let us 
go over to Culver’s house for a few moments.” 

Thayer excused himself on the ground of having 
some work to do, but I went out with Bartley, won¬ 
dering as to the cause of his desire to visit the 
house in which he already had spent part of his 


192 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


day. The walk across the yards was a silent one, 
and after a moment’s wait the colored housekeeper 
opened the door, taking us, at Bartley’s suggestion, 
into the library. 

Without a word Bartley walked to one of the 
bookcases which lined all sides. Most of the books 
were old, evidently part of an ancient library. 
They were of little value—old sermons—historical 
books of a day long past, the countless mass of 
rubbish one finds in a house where never a book is 
thrown away. But one section was filled with 
newer books; one could tell that by the bright 
covers. These latter were novels for the most part, 
save for a section of works upon spiritualism and 
magic. It was before these that Bartley finally 
paused, turning to me. “You know, Pelt,” he said, 
“I have an idea that Culver, or whoever placed the 
message here, put it in a book. That would be a 
good place to hide it. With several thousand books 
to look among, it would be safe. I think the 
typewritten letters are the beginning of a title.” 

With that he bent forward to examine the books 
before him, the four rows of works dealing with 
spiritualism. His eyes ran rapidly over the covers, 
but it was not until he had almost reached the last 
row that he took a book from the shelf. For a 
second he stood looking at the title, and then with- 


BARTLEY DISCUSSES CRIME 193 


out a word he held it out for me to see. There, 
running across the green cover, were the words 
“The Psychological Phenomena of Spiritualism.” 
He opened the book and with a little smile pulled 
forth a piece of paper. It needed but a glance to 
see that he had found the missing part of the 
message. 

The girl came in at this point, and for a while 
she and Bartley carried on a rather listless con¬ 
versation. She seemed very tired, though I noticed 
that she no longer appeared to be afraid. Perhaps 
the fact that a policeman was staying in the house 
until her uncle arrived had reassured her. After a 
few questions regarding this uncle that she had 
never seen, and whom she knew nothing of, we said 
good night and went back to Thayer’s. 

Thayer had left word that he had gone down to 
the village, and so we seated ourselves in chairs 
on the veranda. The night was cool, with a slight 
breeze, and the moonlight playing through the trees 
cast dancing shadows upon the lawn. Once in a 
while an automobile would rush past on the road 
before the house; but save for these, there were 
hardly any sounds. For a while we sat there smok¬ 
ing and resting, and a feeling of contentment stole 
over me. Bartley was stretched far back in his 
chair, the smoke of his cigar floating away on the 


194 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


light breeze. It must have been fully thirty minutes 
before he said: “Oh, by the way, Pelt, to-morrow 
you will have to drive down to Troy to see Culver’s 
former housekeeper. She is down there with her 
son. I got her address from the postmaster. I 
want you to find out if she saw any of the people 
who came in late at night to see Culver.” 

“You think she will know anything?” I asked. 

“Not very much. The postmaster tells me she 
was a bit hard of hearing, and her eyesight could 
have been better. But she might have seen or no¬ 
ticed something. I want to know if any of the 
people of the village visited him.” 

I turned at the earnest tone of his voice and 
asked: “You think some one in the town is mixed 
up in this?” 

“Perhaps so,” was the answer. “That attempt 
to run over you last night makes me think some one 
in the town had a reason for wishing to get rid of 
you. What it could be, I cannot for the life of me 
see. But the chief says that every one at the in¬ 
quest was from the town. This place is a bit off 
the regular route, only a few strangers or tourists 
ever get in here. Hardly any one saw you the night 
the chief locked you up, but there were a good many 
at the inquest who saw you. When the light from 


BARTLEY DISCUSSES CRIME 195 


the car played over you, as you stood in the road, 
you were recognized.” 

“But,” I protested, “I thought there were two 
persons in the car.” 

“Maybe there were,” came the reply. “That 
only makes it worse. Some one recognized you and 
tried to get you out of the way. And the only 
reason would be something connected with this 
case.” 

Since he did not continue, I ventured to ask him 
if he had found any reason for the killing of Culver. 
He turned in his chair to give me a look, but the 
darkness hid his face. 

“Well, Pelt,” he drawled, “there is an old ex¬ 
pression that the newspapers harp on about ‘seeking 
the woman/ I don’t think there is any woman in 
this case, but there is another thing at the bottom 
of most crimes of this kind. Since you are not so 
familiar with the Bible as you might be, I will tell 
you it is found there. It begins: ‘The love of 
money/ Most murders are prompted by the pas¬ 
sion of love or the passion for money. In this case 
I am sure it’s the last. Culver was mixed up in 
something, and I wonder if he tried to double cross 
his confederates, and they killed him. I think it 
is something like that.” 


196 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


“You said,” I ventured, “that you did not think 
it was booze. How about dope?” 

“Good for you, Pelt,” came his quick answer. “If 
it’s one of the two, it’s the latter. In either case it 
means that to get it down here and to distribute it, 
involved more than one person. Anyway, it looks 
as if we may be able to find the motive after a 
while.” 

Thayer’s voice suddenly hailed us from the walk, 
and he dropped into the vacant chair by our side, 
with the information that the chief had checked up 
the boy’s story and found it was correct in its 
details. They had found the whiskey where he said 
he had hid it—under the bed. The man who sold 
it to him had admitted doing so, after a promise 
that he would not be prosecuted. The boy had 
told the truth, and the chief had released him. 

After a little conversation regarding the absurd 
prank the youth had played, Thayer and Bartley 
started a long conversation regarding Andrea 
Nerciat, telling me for my information that he was 
a French writer of before the Revolution. Back 
and forth flew their comments, and after a while I 
ceased to listen; French literature of that period 
was Bartley’s hobby; as for myself, I knew nothing 
about it. 

The argument ran on until almost midnight, and 


BARTLEY DISCUSSES CRIME 197 


I was a rather tired individual when we went to 
our rooms. After I had disrobed and stood rather 
idly in my doorway, watching Bartley, he turned 
to ask: “Pelt, in that library of Culver’s did you 
notice anything odd?” 

I shook my head, saying with a yawn, as I turned 
back to my bedroom: “The only thing that struck 
me as queer was that small roulette wheel he had 
on the stand.” 


CHAPTER XII 


A NEW TWIST TO THE CASE 

T HE sun had hardly risen when I drove the 
runabout out of the yard. Bartley had 
suggested that I start early in order that no 
one in the village should see me. It was his idea 
that, if no one had noticed me when I went down to 
see the chief, and no one saw me now, I might later 
be asked if I had been injured. Inasmuch as we 
had not told of the attempt to run me down, it would 
be rather significant if any one were to ask me about 
it. He admitted it was a long chance, but one worth 
taking. 

It was only about sixty miles to Troy, but the road 
was not the best one I have seen. It ran through the 
small valleys, and the hills were long and steep. 
Because there had not been much rain, it was very 
dusty, and the sudden curves made it impossible 
to make any speed. Still, I enjoyed the ride, for 
the hills were green and restful. A little stream 
ran along the side of the road for some miles, and, 
as the water danced rapidly over the rocks, I won- 
198 


A NEW TWIST TO THE CASE 199 


dered if there were fish in it. Only here and there 
did I see a house, and the farms were few. In fact, 
it was not until I was but a few miles from Troy 
that the country became thickly settled. 

Troy turned out to be a rather unimpressive city. 
The streets were narrow and in horrible condition. 
Its business section was broken almost every square 
by torn-down buildings, or by stores in which there 
had been a fire, and whose fronts were boarded up. 
There was a general air of neglect about it that was 
not dispelled by the long brick rows of rather gloomy 
factories. In its layout it was a queer place. Two 
long streets, which ran parallel with the river, com¬ 
prised the business section, while back of them was 
a great hill on which the houses were spread out. 

It was halfway up this hill that I found the little 
red-brick house I was seeking. The bell was an¬ 
swered by a small boy, whose very dirty face peeked 
out of the half-open door. It took me some time 
to make him understand whom I wished to see, but 
at last he answered that his grandmother was in. 
Closing the door, he left me standing on the step 
until he carried my message within. In a moment, 
however, the door was opened by a young woman, 
evidently the boy's mother, who asked me to come 
in. The small front parlor, into which I was 
ushered, was warm and crowded with cheap furni- 


200 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


ture. Taking a chair, I waited for the woman I 
wished to see. 

When she entered, I saw at once that she was 
an older person than I had expected. Her age must 
have been well over sixty, and the way she peered 
forward to look at me showed that her sight was not 
the best. Yet it was a kindly face, crowned with 
snow-white hair, and the ease with which she moved 
about showed that she was not feeble. But with 
the first words I spoke, I saw I would have trouble; 
for she was very hard of hearing. The wonder why 
Culver should have had a housekeeper who was so 
hard of hearing, and whose sight was bad, came into 
my mind. 

After I made her understand what I wanted, 
and where I was from, I discovered that she did not 
know that her former employer was dead. She ex¬ 
pressed her surprise with several long speeches, 
though I noticed that she did not show any regret. 
In answer to my questions—questions that I was 
forced to put several times before she understood— 
I finally managed to get from her the information 
I had come for. 

It seemed she had answered an advertisement 
for a housekeeper, that she had seen in The Troy 
Times , about fifteen months before. Culver himself 
had come to Troy to see her and had given her the 


A NEW TWIST TO THE CASE 201 


position. She cooked the meals and kept the house 
in order. But she could give me very little informa¬ 
tion regarding her employer. She saw very little 
of him; her two infirmities had prevented that. She 
said he did not go. out much, except to drive about 
the country in his car. But he had never given her 
a ride, and he had very little to say to her. There 
were days when she did not see him except at his 
meals. 

In response to my question as to whether she had 
seen or heard of any one’s visiting Culver at night, 
to my surprise she said she had. There had been 
several nights, after she had gone to bed, when she 
had been aroused by the sound of a car before the 
house. Once she had got out of bed and gone out 
into the hall and looked down the long stairs. I 
asked her if she had seen anyone and if she recog¬ 
nized who it was. She said: “Yes.” I waited 
eagerly for the rest of her answer. 

With the loud voice most deaf people have, she 
said simply: “It was the young doctor who was 
with him.” 

I gave a start. The doctor had told me that he 
hardly knew Culver, though he had been called in 
once to treat him. Yet the housekeeper was saying 
that one night she had seen the doctor at the house. 
After I had got all the particulars from her, there 


202 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


seemed to be a doubt in my mind that he was there 
as a physician. The doctor must have known Cul¬ 
ver, yet he had told me he did not. 

The rest of her information was of little value. 
Culver had told her he was going away for some time, 
and would not need her any longer. So the day be¬ 
fore he left, she had come back to her son’s. She 
had no idea where Culver was going, and she did 
not ask him. I saw she was a bit curious as to why 
I should ask all the questions I did, but I did not 
gratify her, and, thanking her, I went out. 

After I climbed into the car I sat for a moment, 
thinking. I had come fifty miles to discover the 
fact that the doctor knew Culver and had been one 
of the persons who saw him late at night. Why the 
doctor had said he did not know the man, I could 
not understand, but he had said so. That one fact 
was the only thing I had discovered. I doubted if 
the trip had been worth while. 

As I drove back rather slowly, I tried to figure out 
what the housekeeper had told me, wondering if there 
were some reason in Culver’s having had a woman 
that was both hard of hearing and with poor sight. 
Then I puzzled over her statement regarding the 
doctor. It had been suggested that Culver might 
have been engaged in running dope. If so, was the 
doctor mixed up in it? I had liked the young man 


A NEW TWIST TO THE CASE 203 


the night he came to the jail to see me. Still, I knew 
that did not mean anything. 

Some time around five I drove into the yard. I 
left the car in the garage and went into the house. 
There was no one on the veranda, but I found Bart¬ 
ley in the library, poring over a book. A small table 
covered with a mass of papers—papers that bore 
long lines of figures—showed that he had been busy. 
He greeted me and, as I seated myself, asked what 
luck I had had. 

I told him I had found out very little, keeping the 
housekeeper’s story regarding the doctor and Cul¬ 
ver till the last. When I finished, he played with 
his pencil for a moment or so, then said slowly: “So 
it seems the doctor did not tell you the truth. Why 
he should deny knowing Culver would be an inter¬ 
esting thing to discover—and we will look into the 
matter.” 

Seeing my glance at the papers on the table, he 
waved his hand toward them. “I have been trying,” 
he said, “to unravel that code we found. There is 
no doubt it is simply one in which figures take the 
place of letters. I have discovered that the code 
changes with each word. But upon what combina¬ 
tion it is based I must confess I do not know.” 

He paused, then added: “By the way, Culver’s 
brother arrived to-day from England.” 


204 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


“How did he take the news of the murder?” came 
my question. 

“Rather quietly. Said he was a bit surprised, 
but told me he had not seen his brother for years, 
and that made a difference.” 

“Told you?” I asked, surprised. 

“Yes, I went over to meet him. He is about the 
same build as Culver, except he does not have those 
big ears, and his nose is straight; not so much hair 
on his head, either, almost bald, but there is a 
resemblance. He told me he had lived in England, 
but he had knocked around the world a good deal 
in the last few years.” 

“Did he know where his brother had been the 
last six weeks?” I ventured. 

He shook his head. “No; he had a letter a few 
weeks ago mailed from New York, saying he would 
be unable to meet him at the boat, but giving direc¬ 
tions how to get here. He spent a few days in 
New York.” 

“How about the business Culver was in; did 
he know that?” was my insistent question. 

“He knew nothing about his brother, nothing at 
all.” 

With that he turned to one of his long yellow- 
covered French books, and I realized the conversa¬ 
tion was over. I went to my room and took a bath; 


A NEW TWIST TO THE CASE 205 


when I was dressed, dinner was announced. At the 
table Thayer joked a bit about the case, saying that 
only a writer of fiction would be able to solve it, 
and then Bartley and he began to talk about books. 
Dinner was almost over when the ’phone rang, and 
Thayer excused himself to answer it, returning in 
a moment to say the call was for Bartley. With 
a look of surprise on his face, Bartley went into 
the hall, and we heard the murmured tones of a long 
conversation. 

There was a curious look on his face when he again 
dropped into his seat, and he turned to me to say: 
“Well, I have an idea we are going to hear some¬ 
thing.” 

Since no one spoke, he continued: “The call was 
from George Carter.” He turned to me. “You 
know Carter, Pelt.” 

Because Thayer did not know the name, Bartley 
explained that the man was in the government ser¬ 
vice, and his work was mostly with the department 
of justice. Carter had ’phoned that he wished to 
have a talk with Bartley and would be at the house 
in a few moments. Thayer remarked: “Looks as 
if you might find out something.” To which Bart¬ 
ley simply nodded. 

Supper over, we were seated on the veranda, smok¬ 
ing, when Carter came up the walk. In his white 


206 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


silk suit he looked anything but a government op¬ 
erator. His face was tanned, and the little black 
mustache he wore gave him a slightly affected look. 
But I knew there were few who were his equal in 
courage, and his keen, analytic mind was one of the 
shrewdest in the department. He grinned at Bart¬ 
ley and myself, told Thayer he had read his books, 
and accepted a cigar and a chair. While he slowly 
lighted the long cigar, we waited for him to speak. 
He blew several smoke rings with an air of an ex¬ 
pert and then turned to Bartley. 

“Well, John, they tell me you are in on this Cul¬ 
ver affair.” 

Bartley laughed, as he replied that he could 
hardly help being interested in the case, after his 
assistant had discovered the crime and had been 
practically accused of committing it. Carter’s eyes 
opened a bit at this, and Bartley explained my even¬ 
ing in the jail. The three men laughed at my ex¬ 
pression and at Carter’s remark that I should have 
been in jail before. But Bartley admitted he was 
interested in the case. 

“I suppose,” came Carter’s slow drawl, “you know 
who Culver was?” 

Bartley shook his head, replying that he did not. 
He said his face seemed familiar when he viewed 


A NEW TWIST TO THE CASE 207 


the body, but he had been unable to remember where 
he had seen him.” 

Carter bent forward in his chair, removing the 
cigar from his lips, as he said: “You remember the 
curb-stock house, Kellof & Kellof, the biggest 
bucket-shop raid the government ever made?” 

Bartley brought his hand suddenly down on his 
knee. “That’s it! I remember seeing Culver in 
court. He was the man back of the firm.” 

“That’s it,” Carter nodded. He was the whole 
firm. The government closed them up, and Culver 
got a year or so in prison 5 he managed to escape 
most of it by some pull he had. I don’t suppose 
his curb-house ever bought a single share of stock, it 
was an out-and-out swindle. There’s no doubt Cul¬ 
ver was the man behind it. After he came out of 
prison, he opened another bucket shop, but it did 
not last long. Then he promoted some fake oil 
stocks and went West to escape trouble. About 
three years ago he came back to New York and got 
into another game.” 

He paused to relight the cigar that had gone out; 
then, seeing the impatient look upon Thayer’s face, 
went on: “There is no doubt he was mixed up in 
the dope ring along Forty-second Street. We never 
got anything on him, but he was in it, I am pretty 


208 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

sure. But all at once something else happened.” 

“What?” I asked. 

“Well,” came the reply, “Culver left the city, and 
we did not know where he was for a long time.” 
He turned to Bartley to add: “Of course, John, you 
know I found all this out afterward.” 

Bartley nodded that he understood, and Carter 
went on: “Over a year ago the cocaine coming in 
began to arrive from another direction. There is 
always a certain amount coming in from Germany 
on the ships, but we keep that pretty well controlled. 
In the last year or so we found that a great quantity 
was coming from Canada through Vermont.” 

Bartley gave me a smile, and I remembered his 
remark that if Culver were engaged in anything of 
the kind, it would be drugs. He said as much to 
Carter, who nodded, replying: 

“Of course we did not connect Culver with all 
this for some time. And, to be honest, our case 
is a bit circumstantial at that. But we got men at 
work, who traced the shipments from Montreal 
down to this village, then to New York, and in 
Chester we found Culver.” 

It dawned on me that Carter must have far more 
proof than he was giving us. He was telling the 
story as if it were a connected thing, with all the 
details filled in. Yet I knew that to do this there 


A NEW TWIST TO THE CASE 209 


must be far more than we had heard. And it 
was with much interest that I waited for his next 
words. 

“I won’t give away all our case,” he smiled; 
and I judged it was because of Thayer that he was 
not telling us all the facts. “But we worked it 
up very well. I even had a man in with the crowd 
at the Montreal end. He did not find out as much 
as we wished, for they were a bit suspicious of 
him. We got enough, however, to know where the 
stuff was coming from, and we found that it came 
through this town. In fact, Chester was the place 
where the cars they brought it down in stopped. 
From here it was sent into New York.” 

He paused to light a cigarette and, as he threw 
aside the match, went on: “But some weeks ago 
something went wrong.” 

“Wrong?” I asked. 

“Yes, Pelt, wrong. There came down the biggest 
shipment of all. We know it started; we know it 
never reached New York; but we are pretty sure 
it got here. After that all trace of it was lost. It 
was the shipment we had been waiting for. We 
had evidence enough to arrest a lot of little fel¬ 
lows, runners in New York who sold it on the street, 
the men who ran the cars, and such little fellows. 
But we were not after them. We wanted to make 


210 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


one good haul, just as the stuff was being delivered 
in New York or up here. And we failed.” 

“How was that?” came Bartley’s cool voice. 

There was a disgusted look on Carter’s face. 
“I don’t really know. Everything seemed to go 
wrong. The big car left Montreal all right; it got 
over the border; it even, I think, reached here. 
But on the return trip the car was smashed and 
the driver was killed.” 

“Murdered?” came the quick question. 

Carter slowly shook his head. “Of that I am 
not sure, yet it looked so. The car was smashed 
near the border, and the driver was pretty well cut 
up. We had been following the car some miles 
behind and got to the accident about fifteen minutes 
after it took place. There had been some obstruc¬ 
tion in the road, which made me think the smash- 
up was not accidental. But the driver was dead, 
and he was the big man of the Canadian end of the 
deal—a Frenchman named Jean Fort.” 

“There must have been at least three princi¬ 
pals in the thing,” said Bartley. “One in Canada, 
one in New York, and you think the third was 
here.” 

“Yes,” came the reply, “that’s what I think. 
For that matter, I know there were two, anyway. 
One was in Montreal, and he is dead; Culver I 


A NEW TWIST TO THE CASE 211 


am pretty sure was in on it, and he is dead. The 
New York end we are still working on.” 

“You say,” came Bartley’s question, “the last 
shipment never got beyond Chester?” 

Carter was silent a moment. “That’s what I 
am not sure of. We know that other shipments 
came here, then were shot through to the city. We 
know the last shipment, the largest of all, vanished 
somewhere in Vermont, and that it never reached 
the city at all.” 

“Why did you not seize the car when the stuff 
was in it?” asked Thayer’s interested voice. 

“Because of one thing—we were pretty sure of 
getting it, anyway, in the end. What we wanted 
to do was to make the ‘grab’ when we could get 
the whole crowd dead to rights. We might have 
taken the car and the driver any time during the 
ride down from the border, still, we would have had 
but one man. The Montreal end we were in a 
position to smash at any time. But the New York 
end was different. All we had were the runners 
down there, and we wanted the big fellows.” 

Silence fell for a while, as Carter lighted a fresh 
cigar and waited for some one to speak. I ran 
over his story and still wondered just what evi¬ 
dence he had against Culver. As if reading my 
thoughts, he suddenly turned to me. 


212 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


“I suppose you wonder, Pelt,” he said, “what 
evidence I had that Culver was mixed up in this. 
It is all circumstantial. He was in that sort of 
thing before he came up here. The man who was 
killed when his car smashed up, had Culver’s ad¬ 
dress in his notebook and a road map with Culver’s 
house marked. Then again, once or twice, we 
know that the cars from Montreal stopped at Cul¬ 
ver’s house, then returned to Canada. Culver 
was a brainier man than the others mixed up in 
the deal, and I am pretty sure he was the big man 
behind it all. If he had not suddenly gone away, 
I think we would have had him in a few weeks. 
You don’t find a man like Culver leaving the city 
for a small town like this unless he is up to some¬ 
thing.” 

Bartley agreed and then told him of the bank 
deposits Culver had made, and how they were 
all made in the summer and spring, never after the 
roads from, the border became impassable. Then 
he asked Carter if he had any idea as to why Cul¬ 
ver should be murdered. 

Carter shook his head in answer, saying that the 
biggest mystery to him was the man’s sudden death. 
It was his opinion that Culver was the only per¬ 
son that knew anything about where the cocaine 
might be, and, now with him dead, its hiding place 


A NEW TWIST TO THE CASE 213 


was lost. He told us there was little doubt that 
Culver and the man who had brought it down from 
Montreal had intended to clean up on that last 
trip. Now both of them were dead, and the drug 
had vanished. 

I saw Bartley give a little smile at this, and 
shortly afterward, as Carter rose to go, Bartley 
walked out on the lawn with him, where the two 
men held a long conversation. Several times Car¬ 
ter’s head nodded in agreement, and at last I heard 
him say “Yes,” and with that he went away. 

When Bartley returned, Thayer said with a 
laugh: “More and more, John, it gets beyond the 
wildest dream of a writer of fiction.” 

Bartley nodded. “Yes, I presume it seems so. 
Still I think one part of your mystery is to be 
cleared up. Carter tells me it was the day that 
the papers carried the news of the death of the man 
who was killed in the auto that Culver left town.” 

He paused, then added: “That, of course, 
opens up several interesting things. If there were 
only two people who knew about the dope and one 
had been killed, that left Culver in possession of 
about fifty thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine. 
Others know it was shipped; he alone knew where 
it was. The question comes, was he killed because 
of this? The fact that he was drawing all his 


214 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


money from the bank and had sold the girl’s prop¬ 
erty, shows he intended to go away. The time 
was drawing near when he had to make a return 
to the girl regarding his trusteeship. He could not 
do that, and as it looks to me, he was going to 
skip. He owed the girl about sixty thousand 
dollars, I find. His own bank balance was around 
twenty, and that left him forty thousand in the hole. 
This cocaine would have saved him, if he had been 
able to sell it. But he was killed, and I wish I 
knew why.” 

“Do you think,” I asked, “any one in the village 
was in league with him?” 

I had the doctor in mind, and I knew Bartley 
would read my thought. He slowly shook his head. 
“I doubt if it’s what you mean, Pelt. It may be, 
but Culver would hardly take any one into any¬ 
thing he had to share. His reputation, when he ran 
that fake curb house, was that of a man who took 
everything for himself.” 

“Well,” broke in Thayer, “if we only could find 
where they hid that dope you speak about.” 

Bartley’s voice came back, cool and dry. “Oh, 
that is easy. It must be somewhere in that old 
house where he was murdered. But we won’t go 
back and look for it right away.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


I SEE CULVER'S BROTHER 

I HAD expected that the story Carter told us 
would have caused Bartley to have become 
very active during the next few days. In¬ 
stead, save for several telegrams that he sent to 
New York, he did nothing for almost a week. Our 
daily habit was to play golf, going about twenty 
miles in the car to reach the links. Bartley did 
most things well, and he loved golf above all other 
sports, though his game was a weird and wonderful 
thing to see. At times it was perfect, and his put¬ 
ting was uncanny in its sureness. The next day 
he would take a hundred to do the course that a 
few hours before he had done in forty. 

Several times during the week I thought over 
what Carter had told us. There had been a hint 
that Culver might have been killed by some one of 
the group engaged in running the dope, but, as I 
thought of this, I remembered he was pretty sure 
that only Culver and the man who had been killed 
in the machine knew where the drug was. But 
others must have known that an attempt was being 
215 


216 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


made to bring it down to New York. I wondered 
a little why Bartley did not endeavor to find the 
cocaine which he claimed must be hidden some¬ 
where in the old house. It seemed the logical 
thing to do; yet, so far as I could tell, neither he 
nor Carter was making any effort in that direction, 
and there must be some good reason. Carter, I 
had not seen since the night he came to Thayer’s, 
but I got the idea that some of his men were in 
town. 

The third day after Carter’s visit, Kelly came to 
see us again. He looked even more gloomy than 
was his wont, and he frankly admitted that he was 
utterly baffled by the case. But, before he got 
through talking, we discovered he had gone back 
to his theory that the boy who found the pocket- 
book knew something about the crime. He con¬ 
tended that although the youth might have told the 
truth in everything else, the story of finding the 
pocketbook seemed incredible. He wanted to know 
why the person who threw it away did so—some¬ 
thing no one could tell him. 

Even Bartley’s assertion that the boy had told 
the truth did not seem to remove the doubt which 
had returned into Kelly’s mind. As he put it, the 
boy was the only person we had been able to con¬ 
nect at all with the crime. He might have told 


I SEE CULVER’S BROTHER 217 


the truth, and he agreed that his story had been 
all checked up, with one exception—the finding 
of the pocketbook. We told him that, naturally 
enough, this could not be checked up. Despite 
Bartley’s explanation that psychologically the boy’s 
actions were correct, Kelly was still doubtful. The 
boy was the only person who had been questioned 
regarding the murder, and Kelly was still suspicious. 

Though I had not seen Culver’s brother, Robert, 
yet Bartley had talked with him several times. 
One evening, as we sat on the veranda, there came 
floating from the open windows of the other house 
the voice of a man singing. It was a good voice, 
and we listened for almost thirty minutes. We 
found out later that it was the brother, and also 
that he was a good singer. But we did not hear 
him sing again; for some reason, that was the first 
as well as the last time that he unknowingly enter¬ 
tained us. 

Meanwhile I wondered a little regarding the 
doctor’s knowledge of the murdered man. I made 
a few quiet inquiries in the town, discovering that 
the doctor had treated Culver as a patient. But 
he told me that himself, and I concluded this must 
have been the occasion on which the housekeeper 
had seen him talking with Culver in his library. 
There seemed no reason to doubt the doctor’s 


218 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


statement that he hardly knew the man. And 
then one day toward the end of the week there came 
something that caused all my doubts to return. 

I had spent the afternoon in walking through the 
fields and the woods. About four o’clock I decided 
to return to the house, and I struck a little path 
that ran through the trees. Finding a brook run¬ 
ning in the direction I was going, I left the path to 
walk along the cleared bank of the stream. I had 
not gone many yards before I heard the murmur 
of voices ahead of me. The brook turned to the 
right at this place, and when I reached the turn 
I came suddenly upon two men engaged in a very 
animated conversation. 

For some reason they did not see me, and, as I 
saw in a quick glance that one was the doctor, I 
drew back from sight. Curious as to who the other 
man might be, I left the side of the brook and crept 
silently among the trees. High bushes screened 
me from where the men were talking, and I crept 
up behind them. The bushes ended about thirty 
feet from the water, and a cleared space stretched 
between me and the men, who were seated on the 
bank of the brook. One was the doctor, but the 
other man I had never seen. Yet something told 
me it was Culver’s brother. 

He was dressed in a loud-checked suit which 


I SEE CULVER’S BROTHER 219 


looked very uncomfortable for the warm day. His 
face was turned toward me, and there was some¬ 
thing of Culver’s look about him—a trace of it, 
but that was all. The long ears that Culver had 
were missing. Culver’s nose had been noticeable 
for its decided crook, but this man’s nose was 
straight. He had a small black mustache, was 
partly bald, and slightly thinner than the mur¬ 
dered man. Still, there was a family resemblance, 
though it was slight. 

I could not catch what they were talking about, 
though the conversation was earnest. Once or 
twice the doctor disagreed with what was being 
said, and I saw that his hand rested familiarly on 
that of his companion. The two men acted 
friendly enough, and, what surprised me most of 
all, they did not seem strangers. No one in town 
had ever seen Culver’s brother, he had been out of 
the country, we were told, for many years. I won¬ 
dered how the doctor had become acquainted with 
him, yet here they were talking with the ease and 
surety of people who had become good friends. 

What the conversation was about, as I have said, 
I could not hear, for only once in a while did I 
catch a word; then it was only a hint of a word, 
really, the rest being slurred away by the breeze. 
Still I bent in the bushes, watching them for a 


220 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


long while, until at last, convinced that I could 
hear nothing, and that they were in no hurry to 
leave, I decided to go away. I crept back to the 
trees; then, sure I would not be seen, I straightened 
up and set out for the house. Just as I reached the 
road, in a little clearing I saw two cars parked, one 
of which I recognized as belonging to the doctor. 
The meeting of the two men evidently had not 
been by chance, but had been prearranged. 

I was still wondering when I reached the house, 
and, as soon as I could see Bartley, I told him 
about it. He listened gravely enough and then 
simply said that no doubt the two men had be¬ 
come acquainted. But that did not satisfy me; 
and, with a twinkle in his eye, he asked me if I 
wished to suggest that there was anything wrong 
in the meeting. I told him I was not suggesting 
that there was, yet it seemed a bit queer to me. 
But he replied that the world was made up of 
queer things, and he went back to his book. 

That night I saw Culver again. Bartley and I 
had walked down to the town for the New York 
papers. We were on our way back when I saw a 
car approaching. It was going at a terrific speed, 
lurching from side to side, and, before it reached 
us, I came to the conclusion that the driver must 
be intoxicated. We went out of the road to give 


I SEE CULVER’S BROTHER 221 


him plenty of space to pass. Just before he 
reached us, we saw Culver’s brother in another car, 
coming from the other direction. He was doing 
a foolish thing; driving very slowly in the middle 
of the road and reading a paper while steering with 
one hand. 

There was no doubt he did not see the approach¬ 
ing car, and it seemed that nothing could prevent 
a terrible accident. We gave a loud cry, and he 
looked up. At the same second he saw the other 
car almost upon him. With a quick turn of the 
wheel he pulled out on the right, and the other 
car plunged by, missing him by inches only. My 
face had turned white, for it seemed as if the two 
cars would be smashed. But the quickness with 
which Culver had turned out prevented it, and it 
was with a sigh of relief that I watched him con¬ 
tinue up the road. I turned to Bartley: 

“A man has to act quickly on an occasion of 
that kind,” I said. 

“Yes,” came his reply, “he has to act from 
instinct; there is no time to think.” 

Then suddenly I saw him give a start. For a 
moment he stood gravely looking at the tire tracks 
of the two cars; then without a word he went into 
the road to look at them. By his side I looked at 
the marks of the tires in the dusty road. The two 


222 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


cars had just escaped collision by about two inches. 
Only Culver’s quick turn had prevented an acci¬ 
dent, and the marks of his tires in the dust showed 
where he had turned out. Bartley studied the tire 
marks for several minutes; then without a word 
he started back to the house. 

When we reached it and went into the library, 
we saw that Thayer had a visitor. Seated in a big 
chair, drinking lemonade from a tall glass, sat the 
minister who had testified at the inquest. Though 
it was a warm day, he was dressed in a long black 
coat, and, as I acknowledged the introduction, I 
wondered what absurd custom caused a minister 
to wear such a garb. He told us, in that profes¬ 
sional tone which so many ministers affect, how 
pleased he was to see us. And it was a soft, flabby 
hand that shook ours. 

I glanced at Thayer, wondering why the clergy¬ 
man had called, for Thayer hardly ever went to 
church, and then only to the Unitarian. The 
writer gave me a solemn wink when the minister 
wasn’t looking, and we listened to a long account 
of how difficult he found his church work. Then 
suddenly he told us the object of his visit. His 
church, it seemed, was to hold on the following 
Monday evening what he termed a “strawberry 
festival,” and he had called to invite us to attend. 


I SEE CULVER’S BROTHER 223 


I smiled at the thought of Bartley attending such 
a thing, and I tried to picture him eating straw¬ 
berries in a church. But the minister went on to 
say that there was also to be an entertainment, and 
he proffered the information that, as he put it, “the 
present Mr. Culver was to sing.” He informed us 
solemnly that this Culver was a much better type 
of man than his brother; that he attended church 
and had offered to sing for them. All of which, 
I am afraid, did not interest me very much. But 
the next moment, to my surprise, Bartley informed 
him that he would be pleased to accept the invita¬ 
tion, and a few moments later the clergyman left 
us. 

When he was out of hearing, Thayer started to 
have a little fun with Bartley over his desire to 
attend church socials. Bartley bore his sarcasm 
with good grace and informed us that he would 
insist upon our both going with him. Then the 
next moment he said he would have to go to New 
York that night and would be away several days. 
This surprised us both, for no later than lunchtime 
he had said that he was thankful he did not have 
to be in the city these warm days; and I was pretty 
sure that a few hours before he had had no inten¬ 
tion of going to the city that night. Something 
had caused the change in his plans, though what 


224 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

it was, of course, I could not tell. We ? both told 
him he was foolish, but he insisted that it was 
necessary. We made no effort to discover why he 
was going. There w^ould have been no use to do 
that. Bartley rarely told any one his reasons for 
doing things. 

He took the seven o’clock train that night, and 
for the next two days Thayer and I simply loafed 
around. Thayer, it is true, did a little writing, but 
I spent the time in a hammock reading and sleep¬ 
ing. A telegram arrived the second day of Bart¬ 
ley’s absence, asking me to meet him on the 
arrival of the eight o’clock train. 

When the train pulled in, thirty minutes late, 
as was its custom, Bartley was almost the first 
person off. He greeted me with a happy smile and 
handed me several large, square packages to be 
placed in the car. They were rather heavy, and I 
wondered what they were. On the ride back to 
the house he asked what I had been doing while 
he was away, but he gave no information as to the 
reason he had gone to the city. He was in a happy 
mood, and evidently all had gone well. 

At dinner, he informed us that he had succeeded 
in getting more information regarding Culver. 
Not only had the man been the backer of the notor- 


I SEE CULVER’S BROTHER 225 


ious bu&et shop, but for some unknown reason 
he had managed to escape a long prison term. 
After he got out, he was the hidden backer of 
another curb house, but he was driven from that 
position by the managers of the Curb. Moreover, 
Bartley said, there was no doubt that Culver had 
been mixed up in the illicit sale of drugs in New 
York. The police had the narcotic squad after 
him, but, though they managed to frighten him 
from the city, they did not get any real evidence on 
him. Bartley added that he doubted if the man 
had been frightened from the city, as the police 
supposed, but thought he left because he had some 
greater game in view. 

It was Thayer who asked Bartley if he thought 
Culver had been killed by some member of the 
group engaged in running the drugs into the city. 
To this Bartley replied it was hard to say. It 
might be, and probably it was the thing back of it. 
The real mystery of that end of the affair, however, 
lay in the doubt that any of them, save the man killed 
in his machine, knew where the drugs had been 
hidden. If that were so, it seemed incredible to 
think that any one would be likely to know just 
when Culver intended to return. The one thing 
that complicated all of Bartley’s theories was the 


226 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

discovery that, months before, Culver had been 
making his plans to leave town. The reason for 
that step Bartley could not fathom. 

Two days went by with nothing of importance 
taking place. Bartley did have a young man visit 
him, with whom he held a long conversation in the 
corner of the veranda. He did not introduce him 
to me, nor, for that matter, did he say anything 
about him. We spent the afternoons playing golf 
and the evenings reading. So far as the murder 
was concerned, it seemed to be forgotten; and, since 
Bartley never mentioned it, I wondered if he were 
dropping the case. 

Late in the afternoon of the third day of his 
return, Bartley informed us that it was the night 
of the strawberry festival, and when six o’clock 
came he bore us off with him in his car, despite our 
outspoken protests. All the way to the town we 
complained violently of how foolish it was to attend 
such a thing. But to all our complaints Bartley 
made no reply, simply grinning at us. 

It was not yet dark, but when we reached the 
church lawn we found it decorated with many 
colored lanterns, all with their candles lighted. 
Tables were spread on the grass, and women hur¬ 
ried through crowds of children to serve those at 


I SEE CULVER’S BROTHER 227 


the tables. Everybody was talking, and the hum 
of the conversation came to us, as we stopped the 
car before the church. Thayer gave a loud groan, 
as he gazed at the church lawn, and, as we climbed 
out of the car, solemnly shook his head at me. 

The minister spied us and was at our side in a 
moment, telling how glad he was that we had come. 
His red, fat face was flushed by the heat, and his 
black suit looked hot and uncomfortable. Thayer 
was captured by him at once and introduced to 
scores of people as “the famous writer.” When at 
last he managed to get away, he came over to the 
table that we had found and dropped into a chair. 

As we lingered over ice cream and strawberries, 
I could not but ask myself why Bartley had ever 
come to such a place. The church lawn was filled, 
the crowd spilling over into the church itself. The 
younger people had taken the half of the lawn 
nearest to us for their sole use. Young men trying 
to appear far more important than they were, girls 
who laughed loudly at every remark of their 
escorts, and, above all, the shrieks of children, as 
they ran among the crowded tables, were on every 
side of us. The stray dog seen at all public gather¬ 
ings got in every one’s way, as he went around look¬ 
ing for friendship. In the midst of it all was the 


228 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


minister, stopping to talk with this group, patting 
some young man on the back, next smiling and say¬ 
ing a word to some pretty girl. 

Our table received many glances, but I soon dis¬ 
covered that it was Thayer who was the object of 
attention. The minister, no doubt, had spread 
Thayer’s fame as a writer. Some, with a great 
deal of curiosity, looked at me, and I knew they 
were thinking of my appearance on the witness 
stand. 

Bartley, to my surprise, seemed to be getting 
a great deal of pleasure out of the evening. He 
complimented the very pretty young girl who 
served us, winning her heart when he paid with a 
five-dollar bill and refused to accept the change. 
His glance went all over the scene, and there was 
no doubt he would have been able to describe all 
whom he saw. 

As it drew nearer to eight o’clock, the hour when 
the concert was to begin, the crowd grew larger. 
Farmers began to arrive from the country, and 
the rows of cars outside the iron fence increased. 
Just as we were about to go into the church, I saw 
the doctor drive up in his car, and I pointed him 
out to Bartley. 

The concert was like most church concerts held 
in country towns. Those who took part were will- 


I SEE CULVER’S BROTHER 229 


ing enough, but their good will was better than their 
performance. There was the woman who recited, 
rendering her selections in an affected tone that was 
impossible, but which drew loud applause. The 
usual children forgot their lines, in a sudden attack 
of stage fright, and stammered them out in voices so 
low that no one heard what they said. And then 
at the very end of the concert the minister an¬ 
nounced that Robert Culver, who had just arrived 
from England, would sing for them. 

From somewhere near the back of the church the 
man came through the crowded chairs to the plat¬ 
form. The first glance told me it was the same 
man I had seen talking in the woods with the 
doctor several days before. As he faced us, again 
I saw the faint resemblance to his brother, but 
there it ended. He gave one glance over the room, 
then, after his accompanist started, began to sing. 
His first song convinced me that he could sing. 
His voice was not only well trained, but remark¬ 
ably clear in tone. When he ended, the applause 
was so great that he was forced to sing again; in 
fact he sang three selections before he left the 
platform. 

The concert over, we went out of the church, 
through the yard, to the car. As we climbed in, 
I remarked what a good voice Culver had; both 


230 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

Bartley and Thayer agreed, though Bartley’s reply 
was given very absent-mindedly. Since it was still 
early, Bartley drove down to the town and stopped 
in front of the police station. 

We found the chief in his back room, alone. 
He greeted us heartily, asked one or two questions 
as to what Bartley had discovered in the past few 
days, and offered us cigars, which we all had sense 
enough to refuse. Then for some time he talked 
about the murder, telling us that he had come to the 
conclusion it would never be solved. From what 
he said I could see that he knew nothing about 
Carter’s presence in the village, or of the smug¬ 
gling of drugs that had been going on. 

We had been there about forty-five minutes, when 
the telephone in the corner rang. Rather slowly the 
chief raised his heavy figure from the chair and am¬ 
bled over to the phone. In a bored way he lifted 
the receiver from the hook, and said “Hello.” Then 
suddenly his voice changed; there came a tone of 
horror and of the greatest amazement. The curious 
tone caused us to look at him. The red had faded 
from his face, and his eyes seemed almost ready to 
drop from his head. We heard him say, “My Lord! 
Yes.” Then he slowly placed the receiver on the 
hook and turned to us. 

For a moment he said nothing, staring at us in a 


I SEE CULVER’S BROTHER 231 

hopeless manner. Then he stammered out: 
“There has been another murder.” 

“What?” came Bartley’s quick voice. “Where?” 
Again silence for a moment. Then the slow voice 
of the chief spoke again: 

“Yes—they just told me that the minister—Spar¬ 
row—was found murdered in his church.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


ANOTHER MURDER 


HE unexpected had come often in our cases 



—Bartley’s and mine—though I doubt if 


ever I had heard anything that so startled 


and shocked me. Hardly believing my ears, I 
watched the chief stumble over to a chair. His 
heavy figure seemed to slump before my eyes as he 
dropped into it, and the gaze he turned on Bartley 
was one of mingled horror and doubt. Bartley’s 
first glance had been that of a man who could not 
believe what he had heard; but, after one look at the 
chief, another expression came over his face. There 
seemed no doubt that the news was true. The min¬ 
ister had been murdered—a thing which seemed in¬ 
credible, for it was past belief that any one would 
wish to kill that simple soul. 

I could see Thayer’s face, white and horror- 
stricken, as Bartley asked: “Where did they find 
him?” 

“Just found him in his study at the church,” came 
the reply from the chief in a voice that was broken 
and trembling. 


232 


ANOTHER MURDER 


233 


For a while Bartley stood silent in the center of 
the room; then, without a word, started for the door. 
Reaching it, he turned. “We must get up there 
at once,” he said. 

By crowding we all managed to get into the car, 
and in the dash for the church no attention was 
paid to the speed law. As the car stopped before 
the white building, we saw that the yard was filled 
with an agitated crowd. People were gathered in 
groups, talking excitedly—people who turned, as we 
stopped. Recognizing the chief, the men rushed to 
his side, and all started to talk at once. Bartley, 
however, did not pause, but swept through the 
crowd to the church. 

Entering the vestry we found a number of men 
and women. Their faces turned, as we entered, and 
I could see that some of the women had been weep¬ 
ing, while the faces of the men were filled with dis¬ 
may. They watched us, as we hurried across the 
room to the closed door at the other end. It needed 
but a glance to tell it was the door to the study; the 
look of dread which the people cast there indicated 
that, and also what was behind it. That closed 
door had become a symbol of all that was terri¬ 
fying. 

Bartley waited before it till the chief had reached 
our side, a wait that seemed an eternity. Then, 


234 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


with all eyes on him, he slowly turned the knob, and 
we slipped within the room. 

It was only a small room, with several chairs, a 
table and a few cheap bookcases containing, maybe, 
a hundred books. Upon the walls were several pic¬ 
tures, and the calm gaze of the Christ looked down 
over it all. A plain, cheap room, with even an air 
of poverty about it, but a room suddenly made dig¬ 
nified by an object lying close to the open window. 
There, with the white curtain of the window blow¬ 
ing across his still face—looking far more dignified 
in death than it had ever looked in life—lay the 
motionless figure of the minister. 

I had never actually liked the man; there had been 
something in his manner of showing his belief in 
his own importance that irritated while it amused 
me. But, as I looked at the quiet figure before 
us, my mind became filled with a great pity. 
He had been sincere; his work had lain in his at¬ 
tempt to make the world a better place to live in; 
and now he was dead—murdered. It was the last 
phase that I could not understand. There seemed 
no reason to have killed him, nothing that any one 
could have gained through his murder. Only a while 
before he had been rushing from person to person, 
interested in the petty details of a church social. 
Now, perhaps, he was engaged in deeper things. 


ANOTHER MURDER 


235 


Silently Bartley dropped on his knees and ex¬ 
amined the body; presently he pointed to his back. 
There, under the shoulders, the black coat was 
stained by a streak of blood. Like Culver, the min¬ 
ister had been stabbed between the shoulders. But 
there was no weapon—not the slightest sign of a 
weapon—in the room, nor could we find one. 

Rising, Bartley’s gaze traveled around the room. 
There was little use to expect any aid from the chief. 
The sight of the murdered man had broken him to 
pieces. He dropped into a chair, his hands trem¬ 
bling, and he looked sick. Not only was it the crime 
that unnerved him, but, from the few words he said, 
I understood that the minister was the head of the 
church he attended. 

The door from the vestry suddenly opened, and 
a young man came rushing in, followed by the doc¬ 
tor. Both men Were very excited, but, with a glance 
at Bartley, the doctor rushed to the window and bent 
over the dead man. His examination was hasty, 
but naturally it did not require much time. As he 
rose to his feet, he said simply that the minister had 
died within a minute after he was struck. 

“Who found him?” came Bartley’s question. 

The young man spoke up: “I did, sir. After 
the concert a man came from the phonograph com¬ 
pany, and he wished to make records of those who 


236 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

sung. He used the study in which to do it. Mr. 
Culver was the last person who entered, and the min¬ 
ister went into the room with him.” 

“Mr. Culver, the man from the phonograph com¬ 
pany, and the minister were all three in the room 
while the record was being made?” came Bartley’s 
inquiry. 

“Yes; then the phonograph man came out, and 
the minister and Mr. Culver must have talked for a 
moment, for they did not come out at that time. 
But presently they came out together, and Mr. Cul¬ 
ver went away in his car. I saw the minister, a few 
moments later, go back to the study.” 

He paused, his face growing white. “About ten 
minutes afterward I was standing by the door, and 
I thought I heard something fall in the study. I 
opened the door and then-” 

“Yes?” 

“There was the minister by the window. I rushed 
in, and he opened his eyes and gasped: ‘Not—who 
—I thought. It’s-’ But he did not say any¬ 

thing else; he was dead.” 

“There was no one in the room?” 

“No, sir, no one; and I did not see any one.” 

Bartley turned to the chief. “Chief,” he ex¬ 
plained, “Whoever killed the minister wasn’t in the 
room at all.” 




ANOTHER MURDER 


237 


“What?” came the astonished voice of the chief. 

“No; the minister was standing by the window, 
and the murderer, standing outside, stabbed him. 
You can see that the knife even went through the 
white curtain. It was all over in a moment.” 

The doctor had informed us that the blow killed 
him almost instantly. The young man must have 
been in the room within a second after he was stab¬ 
bed, and he missed a good chance to see the mur¬ 
derer. Even then I was puzzled. It was true the 
window opened on the back of the church, and the 
yard was dark. But the front yard had been filled 
with people, and it seemed almost impossible that 
any one could have been around the back window 
without being seen. And the reason for the killing 
was the most puzzling thing of all. 

After a moment, Bartley went to the window 
and looked out into the night. Silently he crawled 
through and spent some time looking at the ground 
under the sill. Then he called to me. I joined 
him outside, and he said, sweeping his hand in a 
gesture: 

“Pelt, this is far more puzzling than Culver’s 
death. I wondered for a moment how the mur¬ 
derer could reach that window without being seen, 
but that stone wall is the answer.” 

I could make out a stone wall within three feet 


238 . THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

of the window—a wall that enclosed the church 
property. Though it was dark, yet it was not so 
dark that I could not see it. The wall ran down 
the road, and it would have been very possible for 
a man to have crept up behind it without being 
seen by those in the front yard. Still, the examina¬ 
tion that Bartley made seemed to reveal nothing, 
and he called the chief to our side after a while. 

The chief had recovered his composure a little, 
and he was told it would be necessary for him to 
have every person who was around the church at 
the time of the murder questioned as to what he or 
she had seen. It might be that some one had seen 
something or somebody. This work, Bartley said, 
he would leave to the chief. With that he mo¬ 
tioned to us to follow, and we went around the 
churchyard to the car. 

The yard was now packed with people, for the 
news of the minister’s death had spread. Not 
only was the yard crowded, but people were arriv¬ 
ing every moment. They watched us with interest, 
but no one came up and spoke. Climbing into the 
car, in a moment we were on the road, headed in 
the direction of Thayer’s house. 

It was Thayer who broke the silence, his voice 
trembling: “John, the sight of that minister has 
unnerved me not a little. Why should they try to 


ANOTHER MURDER 


239 


murder him! I admit he was no highbrow, but he 
was a simple, kindly soul, and now he is murdered.” 

For a while there came no reply, then Bartley 
said: “Why he was killed is simple enough to un¬ 
derstand. They wished to shut his mouth.” 

“Shut his mouth?” was Thayer’s surprised 
question. 

“Yes, shut his mouth. I have little idea what 
he knew, or what he had seen; but he knew some¬ 
thing—something that was so damaging to some 
one that that some one killed him to shut him up. 
His last words may have meant that he was mis¬ 
taken in his first notion as to who stabbed him; 
or they may-” 

“What?” I asked, since he did not finish the 
sentence. 

But he made no reply. In fact he had just 
turned into the drive that led to Culver’s house. 
Surprised at this, we asked him why he was going 
there. He replied that inasmuch as Culver seemed 
to have been the last person with the minister, he 
wished to question him. To Thayer’s reminder 
that the minister had walked down the vestry with 
Culver, and then the man had driven away, Bart¬ 
ley returned no answer. 

As we walked up to the piazza, I noticed that 
the library was a blaze of lights, which caused 



240 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

Thayer to comment that Culver slept at night 
with his lights on. If Bartley heard this last re¬ 
mark, he gave no sign, going at once to the door 
and pressing the button of the bell. The house¬ 
keeper opened the door and, at Bartley’s request 
to see Culver, took us into the library. There was 
no one there. 

Bartley gave a glance around the room, going 
at once to one of the bookcases, where he seemed to 
examine its contents. Nothing had been changed 
since we had last been there, though there were a 
few more books on the desk. The toy roulette 
wheel had been removed from a stand in the corner 
and now stood on the desk. I saw Bartley look at 
this, and then a most curious expression came over 
his face. He seemed on the point of speaking 
when a voice from the door asked: “You wished 
to see me?” 

We turned, as Culver came into the room. As 
he stood by the fireplace, I noticed that his face 
was not a pleasant one; there was a hint of cruelty 
in the lines about the mouth, and I did not like 
the expression of his eyes. The look he gave us 
was one of inquiry, one which also hinted that he 
was not overjoyed to see us. 

It was Bartley’s cool voice that answered: “Yes, 
Mr. Culver, I came over to tell you that the min- 


ANOTHER MURDER 241 

ister of the church where you sang to-night has just 
been murdered.” 

A doubting look, which gave way to one of sur¬ 
prise, came over the man’s face. “Murdered?” 
he asked. “But why should you wish to see me?” 

“Simply because you were the last person who 
was with him.” 

The man started to make some angry protest 
which Bartley stopped by saying: “I know, of 
course, you left before he was killed. But I won¬ 
der if you noticed anything about him—I mean, 
of fear or excitement in his manner?” 

The man slowly shook his head. “I can’t say 
that I did. In fact the last words he had to say 
to me were regarding coming around to-morrow. 
I judge my brother treated him rather shabbily, 
and I thought it would do no harm to show a little 
interest in him. There was a man from a phono¬ 
graph shop, who wished to make several records of 
those who sang at the concert. He was to sell 
them for the church. I was the last one that sang 
—the minister was in the room when I did so. But 
I can’t see why he should have been killed.” 

Outwardly the man was pleasant enough, yet for 
some reason I could tell he did not care for our 
presence. After a few more words we said good 
night and started for the door, Culver with us. 


242 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

As we reached it, Bartley gave an exclamation, 
saying he had forgotten his hat, and he went back, 
returning in a moment. Then came a short good 
night, and we were out in the open air. 

As the car turned into the garage, Thayer 
laughed. “That chap was not very pleased to see 
us. He seemed a bit more pleasant than his 
brother, but that’s about all.” 

When we went into the house we heard the tele¬ 
phone in the library ringing loudly. Thayer an¬ 
swered it, then called Bartley, and we listened to his 
short conversation. When it was over he came to 
our side. 

“Well, here is something more for you,” he said. 
It seems the minister called the police station just 
before he was killed and asked for the chief. His 
desk man forgot to tell him of the call.” 

“That’s queer,” came my response. 

“Yes,” was the reply; “it is. The minister had 
something he wished to tell the chief. Now, since 
the chief was at that concert, then it follows that 
the minister wished to tell him something he had 
discovered after the chief left. I wish I knew what 
it was.” 

Thayer started to speak, but Bartley broke in 
on his first word to ask if he had a Hoyle in his 
library. Rather astonished at the request, the 


ANOTHER MURDER 


243 


writer nodded and, going over to a book-case re¬ 
turned with the book. Bartley quickly fingered it; 
then, apparently seeing what he wanted, went over 
to the desk and drew from his pocket an envelope. 

Though I saw he took from the envelope the 
piece of paper containing the mass of figures, yet 
I did not ask him what he was doing. He busied 
himself with a large sheet of paper, glancing every 
second at a page in Hoyle and putting some kind 
of figures down on the paper before him. Several 
times he shook his head, as if in disgust, then went 
back to Hoyle. Why he should be using a book of 
rules—one that contained directions for playing 
games—I could not tell. Thayer watched him for 
some time; then he wandered out into his kitchen, 
returning with three tall glasses that looked invit¬ 
ing. He placed Bartley’s glass by his side. It 
went untouched for nearly thirty minutes. Then 
all at once Bartley raised his head, leaned back 
in his chair, and turned to us with a happy glance. 

There was a quizzical tone in his voice, as he 
said: “Well, Pelt, you told me the other night 
where to find the solution of that message, but I did 
not believe it.” 

Puzzled, I shot back; “I never did—I don’t 
know how to decipher it.” 

“But you did just the same,” he insisted. “You 


244 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


said the roulette wheel was the strangest thing in 
Culver’s library; and it’s the roulette wheel that 
deciphered the message for me. The message it¬ 
self is not very startling.” 

Wondering, Thayer and I bent over the table 
and gazed at the mass of figures which were spread 
out on the sheet of paper. But even then they 
did not contain anything of value to us. As we 
looked, Bartley pointed to the open pages of Hoyle. 

“It’s all there,” was his remark. 

“For the love of Mike, tell us what you mean, 
John,” came Thayer’s impatient voice. 

Bartley picked up the paper that had been found 
in Culver’s pocketbook and smoothed it out so 
we could see it. Then, as we glanced at it, he said: 

“You remember, I said this code contained a 
message of some kind. There are many kinds of 
codes and ciphers. All are based on the same prin¬ 
ciple. I knew, of course, that the figures in this 
represented letters, and if we could only get the 
combination of figures we would be able to read the 
code. But that was not easy. I found there was 
no doubt the figures represented letters. I dis¬ 
covered also that the code was changed with each 
combination of figures. In other words, there was 
a code for each word.” 

He paused and, glancing at the open book in 


ANOTHER MURDER 


245 


front of him, continued: “Though I tried all the 
simple codes, none of them would fit. You remem¬ 
ber, I said the letter ‘e’ was the most common letter. 
I tried to pick it out; thought I had succeeded, then 
ran into something else.” 

“What was that?” was the interruption from 
Thayer. 

“Simply that the figures did not come in the reg¬ 
ular order. If, for example, we say that ‘ten’ was 
used for the letter ‘e,’ then ‘eleven’ should represent 
‘f.’ Only it did not. This code was built upon 
some defined group of figures, but the figures came 
in no regular order. It was Pelt who gave me the 
clew as to where they might be found—though I 
must admit I did not know it, when he first sug¬ 
gested what it might be.” 

“I did?” I asked in wonder. “What did I 
say?” 

“You said the thing that struck you strange 
about Culver’s library was the small roulette wheel 
on the stand. It did seem the odd thing in the 
room. And the code is based upon that roulette 
wheel.” 

“The devil it is!” came from Thayer. 

“Yes, it’s based on that. We do not have a 
roulette wheel here, but the layout is in Hoyle. 
Now look here.” 


246 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


He pointed to the sheet of paper before him 
covered with the mass of figures. “Here is the 
first word: ‘Plus 3/25 equals 26, 34.28. 4.’ The 
first thing there, the plus three with the line and the 
figure Twenty-five’ under it, bothered me for a 
while. But the figure Twenty-five’ represents the 
figure on the roulette wheel where the alphabet 
starts. The plus three simply means three figures 
from that, and going to the right on the wheel is 
where it actually starts. Some groups of figures 
say minus, and you simply count back the number 
from the one under the line. In the first group the 
third figure from Twenty-five’ is Thirty-one’ and 
the letter ‘a’ starts there. The alphabet starts 
from there. Now doing that, using the roulette 
wheel as the guide and placing the letter ‘a’ under 
the right number, and counting around—for the 
alphabet always goes around the wheel to the right 
—you get this for the message: 

“ ‘Your—wise, ship one thousand in seven weeks, 
fifty split. Be careful.’ ” 

I looked at the mass of figures which under 
Bartley’s guidance shrunk to the simple statement 
before us. But there was a blank after the first 
word, and I wondered what it was. Turning, I 
asked. 

He replied that he was not sure. The figures 


ANOTHER MURDER 


247 


giving the indication for the word seemed to be 
mixed, and he was unable to decipher it. He said 
there were so many thousands of combinations on 
the wheel, that, if one were wrong, it would be 
impossible to figure out what it might mean. 
Thayer, after a moment’s glance, said it was a very 
clever code, to which Bartley replied there was no 
doubt of that. It was a code that could not be 
puzzled out, unless one knew it was based upon a 
roulette wheel. 

“I wonder if that missing word is brother?” I 
ventured. 

“How could it be?” broke in Thayer, not waiting 
for Bartley to reply. “How could it be his brother? 
That message must deal with some attempt to run 
the drugs down from Montreal. His brother was 
in London; he was not presumed to know anything 
about drugs.” 

Bartley half agreed, saying that there was no 
doubt it was a message relating to the shipment of 
drugs. He added that there would be many rea¬ 
sons why those engaged in it would not wish to 
take any chances of the knowledge getting out 
when they were operating. But he was rather in¬ 
terested in that clause, “be careful.” Had some¬ 
thing happened which had warned them they were 
being watched? Or had Culver and the man who 


248 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


was killed on his return trip decided to cheat the 
others out of their share of the money received 
from the drugs? 

Whatever it might be, after a long conversation 
we at last gave it up as a bad job. Bartley had 
translated the message: What it might actually 
mean, what bearing it might have on the murder, 
remained to be seen. The conversation returned to 
the death of the minister. That, after all, was the 
real mystery to me, even greater than the death of 
Culver. Why any person should kill the minis¬ 
ter, who was a harmless, inoffensive soul, I could 
not divine. 

We talked back and forth a while. Bartley in¬ 
formed us that there seemed to be no doubt the 
minister had been killed to prevent his telling some¬ 
thing that he had discovered. And what he had 
discovered he found out in the last few moments 
before his death. I tried to figure out what this 
might be, but there seemed nothing that would give 
me any light. 

Finally the conversation died away, and Bartley 
suggested that we go out on the veranda for a bed¬ 
time smoke. The night was dark, the air a bit cool, 
but the stars were bright above us. A ray of light 
from the house across the way told us that Culver 


ANOTHER MURDER 


249 


was up, and I studied it for some time. Thayer’s 
voice roused me from my thoughts: 

“That bird keeps his light burning all night.” 

“Are you sure of that?” asked Bartley. 

“Yes; heard the housekeeper say so,” was the 
reply. 

Nothing more was said, and we sat there for some 
time. At last rising to his feet and throwing his 
cigar away, Bartley suggested it was time for bed. 
When we reached the doors of our rooms and were 
about to say good night, Thayer asked: “Do you 
think you ever can solve these murders, John?” 

Bartley turned, his face serious. “It’s not a 
question of solving them. It’s a question of prov¬ 
ing what I know.” 

“Proving?” came his friend’s voice. “The next 
thing, you will be saying you know who killed the 
two men.” 

The answer was cool and sharp: “I know who 
killed them both; but it’s a far harder thing to 
prove it.” 

And, leaving Thayer and myself staring at him 
in astonishment, he went into his bedroom. 


CHAPTER XV 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 

1 WENT to bed with Bartley’s words running 
through my mind, and they were there when 
I awoke in the morning. As I dressed, I 
thought of his remark that he knew who killed both 
Culver and the minister, and I wondered whom he 
suspected. One thing I knew, and that was that 
Bartley did not make such positive statements re¬ 
garding his cases unless he had something to go on. 
And if he said that he knew who killed the two 
men, then I was sure he did know. Yet, after all, 
we had done very little work on the case, and I 
could not but wonder. 

Thayer seemed to feel the same way; for, when 
I went down to breakfast, he was alone in the 
library and at once asked me if I had any idea as 
to whom Bartley might suspect. I said I had 
none, and for a while we tried to figure out who it 
could be. This proved a rather hopeless task, for 
there seemed to be no one to suspect, unless it was 
the doctor. I told Thayer what the former house¬ 
keeper had said regarding seeing the doctor at the 
250 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 251 


house. This caused the writer to say that it was 
not probable the doctor knew Culver very well, and 
I must be mistaken when I thought he told me he 
did not know him at all. 

Bartley had eaten early, leaving word with the 
housekeeper that he had gone to the village. It 
was around noon when he returned, and he was in 
a rather happy mood. But, to our questions, he 
answered that there had been nothing new dis¬ 
covered regarding the death of the minister. He 
said the murder had shocked the town far more than 
that of Culver, and that every person had tried to 
find something which would throw light on the 
crime. 

The known facts of the murder remained prac¬ 
tically as they were the night before. The minis¬ 
ter had gone back to the study after walking through 
the church with Culver’s brother. People in the 
yard had seen Culver’s brother drive away. The 
minister had returned to the study and shut the door. 
One new item had been disclosed: There had been 
discovered a young woman who had gone to the 
study door and knocked. This was the only bit of 
new evidence that had been found during the last 
twelve hours. The minister’s voice had called, 
“Come in,” but the young woman had only opened 
the door and did not enter the room. He was seated 


252 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


by his desk and seemed rather disturbed. She asked 
a question regarding some meeting to be held during 
the week, and then she shut the door again. Twenty 
minutes later the young man we had met went to the 
door, knocked, received no reply, opened the door, 
and saw the minister lying by the window. He 
called out in surprise and rushed to the minister’s 
side. That was all that the people had been able to 
discover regarding the murder. 

Why the minister was murdered seemed impos¬ 
sible even to theorize over. He had been a simple 
sort of a man, with a rigid religious faith—one 
that he worked hard for. Because the town itself 
was rather old-fashioned in its religious views, the 
narrowness of the minister had caused no comment. 
There seemed no reason why he should have an 
enemy. Yet he had been murdered. 

Lunch was half over when Bartley received a 
long telegram. Thayer, who answered the door¬ 
bell, brought the yellow-jacketed message to the 
table, and we watched Bartley read it. As his eyes 
took in its contents, he half smiled, and then to my 
surprise, as he placed the message in his pocket, sug¬ 
gested that we have a game of golf. 

The game Bartley played that afternoon told me 
that he was near the end of the case. Often his 
golf was a laughable thing to watch. But one thing 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 253 


always happened: With a case solved, he would 
play an uncanny game. And the game he played 
that afternoon was almost perfect. From the time 
he drove off at the first tee, with a drive that went 
two hundred and fifty yards straight down the 
course, till he sank a fifteen putt on the eighteenth 
green his game was a marvel. When the ball rolled 
into the last cup, he gave a happy grin, as he looked 
at his score, and we started back to the house. 

When we went to his room, after our return, 
there was a small package on Bartley’s dressing 
table. I watched him, as he tore off the paper and 
brought to light two prints. He looked at them for 
a while, read the note which accompanied the 
package, then handed them to me with the words: 
“There is the evidence that will convict a man of 
killing Culver.” 

Eagerly I took the two prints from his hand. 
I hardly knew what I expected to see, but when I 
looked I could not understand what they might be. 
There were two prints, and they were simply a 
mass of lines, rising and falling across the paper. 
They looked something like the stock-market charts, 
graphs of the rise and fall of some stocks. I knew 
they could not be that, yet I did not know what 
they represented. The two graphs were identical, 
the lines having the same rise and fall. As I 


254 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

studied them, I grew more and more bewildered. 
There was a look of mirth on Bartley’s face when 
he saw my curious expression. As I returned them, 
I ventured: “What are they, John?” 

He put the prints away before he replied, and 
then he said: “You will have to wait a while, 
Pelt; then you will find out.” 

After dinner we retired to the veranda and 
smoked for a while. When it was dark, we went 
into the library, and Bartley, finding a book that 
pleased him, sank into a chair to read. But he 
was not destined to read very long, for about nine 
o’clock the doctor came. 

He apologized for his visit, saying frankly that 
he was very keen to meet Bartley, but had been 
unable to do so because of the press of work and his 
duties as coroner. Bartley seemed a little pleased 
when the doctor told him he had his book on “Some 
Rare Poisons” in his library, and for a while the 
two men talked of this and that. At last, however, 
they came to the thing I wanted to hear. 

I had understood the doctor, the night he came 
to the jail to see me, to have said that he did not 
know Culver. The housekeeper, however, told me 
she had seen him at the house around midnight. 
It had seemed a bit queer to me, and, to my sur¬ 
prise, Bartley with a laugh told the doctor he had 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 255 


the impression he did not know Culver, but that 
the housekeeper said he had been to the house. I 
noticed that Bartley’s eyes did not leave the young 
man’s face, though there was no surprise or seem¬ 
ing confusion in the frank gaze that returned his 
look. Instead, he said: “Yes, it’s true; I hardly 
knew the man. I was called in one night to see 
him. I remember it very well, because the call 
came to the office around seven, and I did not an¬ 
swer it till I had returned from a case in the coun¬ 
try. It was about twelve when I got to Culver’s. 
He had a hard cold, but the thing I noticed most of 
all was that he appeared a bit put out at my late 
visit, and he tried to get me out of the house as 
quickly as he could.” 

“Have you any idea why he wanted to get you 
out of the house?” 

The doctor shook his head slowly. “No; yet I 
assumed that he was expecting some one. He kept 
glancing at his watch, though there was a big clock 
on the wall before me. So I took the hint and left. 
Just as I got into my car, another car stopped some 
yards behind me. I did not see who was in it, 
though I did see a man go up the walk after I drove 
away.” 

He paused, then added: “Sometimes after that 
when I saw him, which was not very often, he would 


256 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

speak, and sometimes he would not”—he laughed— 
“like the night of the murder.” 

“Are you positive it was Culver you saw?” 

“Well,” came the rather positive reply, “I was 
sure at the time. It took the minister’s story of 
seeing him the same hour at the other end of the 
town to shake my faith. Still, I am pretty sure it 
was Culver.” 

“You did not see his face?” 

“No, I did not. He turned after I spoke to him. 
You see, I called, as I rushed past in the car—I 
was going pretty fast, I and was several hundred 
feet away when I stopped—but he paid no attention 
to me.” 

For a while the two men talked about their ex¬ 
periences in France. It was the doctor who did 
most of the talking, Bartley by shrewd questions 
drawing him out and giving little information in 
return. As I looked at the young man, the more 
I began to doubt my suspicion that he knew any¬ 
thing about the crime. I had presumed also that he 
might have been mixed up in the smuggling of the 
drugs, but I began to doubt even that. His face 
was that of a rather nervous and, perhaps, over¬ 
worked man. A keen face, burnt brick-red by the 
sun, with kindly eyes. As I listened to the two men 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 257 


talking, I decided that my suspicions regarding the 
doctor had been wrong. 

After he left, Bartley came back to the library 
and in a moment said: “I am afraid, Pelt, you will 
have to build up a new theory—one that does not 
have the doctor in it.” 

Thayer gave me a surprised look and asked: 
“Did Pelt have an idea the doctor knew anything 
about the affair?” 

Bartley nodded and stopped my protest by say¬ 
ing: “Yes; that is, perhaps, a rather wee suspicion 
that he might have known something. But I judge 
the doctor is all right. I doubt if he knows a thing 
about the crime.” 

It was late when I went to bed. Bartley was 
still reading when I went upstairs, and I have no 
idea what time he retired. I was tired and went to 
sleep at once. In fact it was Bartley who roused 
me in the morning by shaking my arm and, when 
I had opened my eyes, telling me to dress, because 
Carter was down in the library and wished to see 
us. 

I gave a glance at my watch; it was only seven— 
a rather early hour for any one to call. I took 
little time in getting on my clothes. The fact that 
Carter had come to the house at such an early hour 


258 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


was enough in itself to convince me that something 
had taken place. Bartley waited until I was 
dressed, and we went downstairs together. Thayer 
was still sleeping, for his bedroom door was closed. 

We found Carter impatiently pacing the library 
floor, and he turned with eagerness, as we entered. 
From the expression on his face, I could tell he was 
pleased over something. His first words were to 
apologize for getting us up so early, but he added 
significantly that he knew that Bartley would wish 
to hear what he had to tell. 

After he had lighted the cigar Bartley gave him, 
he stretched out in his chair and said: “Well, I 
got something last night that may throw some light 
on the murder.” 

Bartley did not reply, and the government man 
continued: “I have had some men at work here 
for the past two weeks or so, and last night we picked 
up a man.” 

He paused, as if expecting Bartley to ask him a 
question, but, since he did not, went on: “We 
recognized several days ago a man, who was hang¬ 
ing around the town, as a member of the gang that 
we had been watching on the Montreal end of the 
drug case I told you about. He did not seem to do 
anything, though I had him shadowed for a couple 
of days. Last night I suddenly decided to have him 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 259 

pulled in, and I gave him a bit of the third degree 
to see if he would talk.” 

He grinned, as if the thought of what had taken 
place was pleasant. “Well,” he said, “I judge I 
scared the life out of the chap. He was in rather 
bad shape for want of cocaine, and I went right 
after him. Told him I had the goods on him, in¬ 
formed him of a good many things about that 
Montreal crowd he thought no one knew anything 
about. And at the end he talked—and talked 
plenty.” 

The story was a rather long one. It went back 
to the beginning of the drug running. The man 
that Carter had caused to be arrested had been a sort 
of handy man for the man who was killed on his re¬ 
turn from Culver’s, the man who had been the most 
important member of the Montreal group and had 
never before made the trip down in a car. His do¬ 
ing this had caused talk, and later those in the ring 
became suspicious that he was going to double- 
cross them. This story had been dragged out of 
the man whom Carter had had arrested, and it was 
more or less disconnected in the telling; but the 
main points of the story were clear. 

After the Montreal man was killed, there was a 
good deal of talk regarding his death, but the man 
now in the town jail told Carter that he knew noth- 


260 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


ing about the death, whether it was accidental or not, 
but he had an idea that perhaps it was not acci¬ 
dental. Then there came the news that the drugs 
had never reached New York, he said, and, though 
they were anxiously awaited for some weeks, they 
did not come through. It was right here that Cul¬ 
ver came into the case. 

As I shot Carter an inquiring look, he saw my 
glance and replied: “There is no doubt now, Pelt, 
that Culver was mixed up in the thing. I had the 
idea he was one of the big men in the ring. Now 
I am sure he was.” 

“How do you know that?” demanded Bartley. 

Carter gave a happy grin. “Why,” he said, “this 
chap I nabbed had run two cars down, and each 
time he had made his deliveries to Culver. 
He knew him before this, and it was Culver to 
whom he gave his load at the end of the trip. He 
knew also that other cars at various times had come 
down, but where they went, he does not know. 
Still, we know that Culver received at least two 
shipments of drugs from Montreal.” 

“But,” I asked, “what was that man you arrested 
doing down here, anyway?” 

“That’s the rest of the story. He knew that twice 
drugs had been delivered to Culver, because he had 
delivered them himself when his chief was killed; he 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 261 


knew that he had been to Chester. Then the news 
came that the cargo had never reached New York. 
No one seemed to know where it was. Then he 
remembered another thing—that before each trip 
from Montreal his chief would write a letter. 
Once he had to mail one of the letters, and it was 
addressed to Culver. Three days before the last 
trip was made, he came into the room just as his 
boss was finishing some sort of letter. He got a 
glance at it, but it was simply a mass of figures that 
made no sense. The sheet was placed in an en¬ 
velope which he was given to mail. It was addressed 
to Culver-” 

Carter paused to light a fresh cigar, then con¬ 
tinued: “So, later, he heard that the shipment 
never reached New York. Next, some weeks after 
that, he heard Culver had been murdered. That 
made him get busy. Telling a friend, he pledged 
him to secrecy, and they came down here. He had 
an idea something might be found in Culver’s safe 
that would tell where the dope had been hidden. 
Anyway, they made one attempt to get in, but were 
scared away.” 

“Only one?” broke in Bartley’s quick tone. 

“Only one, and that was the night you caught 
them. The man swears by the seven gods that 
they made but one attempt to get into the house. 


262 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


He got in all right, but your falling over a chair 
scared him away.” 

I remembered the girl had said that some one 
tried to enter the house the night her uncle was 
murdered. Yet if the man had told Carter the truth, 
it could not have been he. I shot a glance at Bart¬ 
ley, and he slowly nodded back to me. He was 
thinking the same thing. 

There was little more of value in Carter’s recital 
of what he had discovered. The man had no idea 
where the drugs had been placed. He insisted that 
he hardly knew Culver, or where he had gone, or 
why he had left the town so suddenly after he re¬ 
ceived news that the man who had delivered the 
last shipment was killed. He admitted that per¬ 
haps there were half a dozen who knew that Cul¬ 
ver was one of the principals in the illegal traffic, 
but had never heard a hint that any of them might 
have killed him. In fact, the death of Culver had 
come as a great surprise to them, and they did not 
know how to explain it. 

When Carter had finished, he gave us a glance 
to see what we thought of his story. Bartley’s face 
was grave, and he said nothing. I myself could not 
see that he had discovered much of importance. 
True, he had definitely linked Culver with the drug 
ring. That, however, was not of the greatest impor- 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 263 


tance now. Culver was dead, the law could not 
reach him, and he had been murdered. Yet there 
seemed to be a hint that perhaps some member of the 
drug ring had killed nim. It seemed reasonable 
that if one person knew about the large shipment 
which had been made, then others might have 
known. And there seemed little doubt that Culver 
and the man killed in the automobile accident had 
intended to cheat the others out of the profit on the 
last shipment. 

I stopped thinking of these things to listen while 
Bartley told Carter about the code message, and 
how he had deciphered it. Carter listened carefully, 
but said, when it was ended, that for the life of 
him he could not see why Culver had tried to hide 
the message, why he had not simply thrown it aside. 

Bartley agreed to this, but added that he always 
found that criminals did the unexpected. He ad¬ 
mitted that there seemed little reason to hide the 
message, for it did not give the place where the 
drugs were hidden; yet all the messages sent Culver, 
telling him when shipments were to be made, must 
have been in code, so they could not be read if they 
fell into other hands. He suggested that it may have 
been that Culver deciphered it, found there was one 
word that he did not know the cipher for and had 
hidden it, intending to wait until he saw the person 


264 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

who wrote it. Then, perhaps, the man had told him 
what the cipher meant, but, in the excitement over 
the man’s death, Culver had not bothered to destroy 
the message. 

After some further argument Carter said this 
might be so; and for a while they talked of the min¬ 
ister’s murder. On this, Carter had no theories, 
and he was not much interested, saying it was out of 
his line. He did express his astonishment that the 
minister had been killed, and he said that ministers 
did not regularly figure in murders. But he had no 
theories regarding the crime. 

After he had gone, Thayer, who had come down¬ 
stairs while Carter was in the library, suggested 
that breakfast might be a good thing. The break¬ 
fast turned out to be a silent meal, and it was not 
until it was about over that Bartley rose with a 
sudden exclamation. After he went out into the 
hall we heard him at the telephone, and his voice 
filtered back to us, though we were unable to dis¬ 
tinguish the words that he used. When he returned 
he said, as he sank back into his chair. “I want 
that story Carter just told me in the paper to-night. 
I just called the editor and gave him a tip to call 
Carter.” 

“You want it in the paper?” said Thayer. 
“Why?” 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 265 


Bartley shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it’s a 
good story, Thayer, and I know that good stories 
don’t ‘break’ often in this little town.” 

Thayer murmured something about there having 
been enough good stories lately and went back to 
his breakfast. When it was over, we strolled out 
on the lawn and walked slowly back and forth under 
the tall trees. For a while no one had much to say; 
then Thayer asked a question which he said he had 
been thinking over for some time. 

“John,” he asked, “do you really know anything 
more about Culver than you did?” 

“A good deal,” came the reply, “almost a life 
history. To start with, I know that Culver for 
many years ran shady brokerage houses. Every 
little while he would fail, go to a new city, open an¬ 
other place—only to fail again. Then he got hold 
of some money and opened that big curb house 
which failed so spectacularly a few years ago. He 
went to jail for a few months because of it. He 
had made enough money to satisfy the ordinary man 
for life, but the lawyers got most of it, keeping him 
from jail, and then getting him out after he got in. 
After that the outline is less clear.” 

“How did you find that out?” inquired Thayer 
in a rather astonished tone. 

“District attorney’s office in New York. They 


266 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


had all the information regarding his career as a 
fake broker. Of course they had nothing after he 
went to prison; their case was ended then.” 

He paused, then continued: “After that, Culver 
came up here. I have the idea it was because he 
thought it would be a good place to hide; also, no 
doubt, his plan of getting drugs from Montreal had 
been completed by that time. This was a quiet 
place, and there would be no suspicion about what 
happened. To make sure that nothing would be 
noticed, he kept to himself and hardly ever went 
out. All might have gone well but for one thing.” 

“And that was his not knowing Carter was after 
him,” I suggested. 

“I doubt if he knew Carter was after him,” 
came the reply. “It was something more serious 
than that.” 

Since he did not go on, I asked: “What do you 
mean?” 

“Simply this: You remember that about four 
months ago, bucket shop after bucket shop, the 
country over, failed? Now Culver, like most men 
of his type, knew the bucket-shop game—knew it 
was something hard to beat. But he could not re¬ 
sist the attempt to beat the other man’s game. 
Gamblers are the same. They will leave their own 
place and play in some other man’s house all night. 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 267 


The district attorney tells me that when Reitz & 
Reitz were closed up by his office, it was found, 
when the books were gone over, that Culver was 
one of the big losers-” 

“But,” interposed Thayer, in a rather bewildered 
voice, “what has all that got to do with it?” 

“It has this: Culver must have been pretty well 
wiped out so far as money went. From the checks 
we find that he played the market after the sale of 
his niece’s property. He must have poured her 
money into the market, hoping it would go up. 
Suddenly the government closed the broker’s office, 
and Culver lost almost everything. There was 
something left, and he then decided to go away. 
There was little else he could do. His money was 
gone, and in several months he had to turn over to 
the girl her property. It was gone, and discovery 
was certain. Then—and this, of course, is theory— 
I think he and the man from Montreal decided to 
make the largest shipment of drugs which had yet 
been made. But this time they were to sell it, get 
the money and skip. Then fate stepped in once 
more.” 

“How?” I asked. 

He threw me a disgusted look, as much as to say 
that I should know, but answered: “The man was 
killed on his return to the car, either through acci- 



268 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


dent or through murder. Perhaps the gang had 
got wind of what the two men were trying to do. 
That is what I think Culver thought; anyway, he 
skipped at once when he heard that the man had 
been killed on the return trip. Then, some weeks 
later, he returns secretly.” 

“What for?” inquired Thayer. 

“To get the dope,” I replied before Bartley 
could answer. 

“No doubt that was the reason,” came Bartley’s 
reply. “He certainly knew where it was, and he 
needed the money it would bring.” 

“And then,” said Thayer, as he threw aside the 
cigar he had been smoking, “some one of his ring 
was ready for him and killed him.” 

Bartley looked at him rather seriously for a mo¬ 
ment. “Perhaps so. It’s as good a guess as any 
you might make, Thayer.” He paused a second, 
then said: “But we will know soon.” 

“Soon?” I ventured. 

He had started for the house, but at my question 
turned and looked at us. There was a slight twinkle 
in his eye. “Yes, very soon,” he said. “To-night 
if my plans go through. You and Thayer better 
try to make up your minds as to who committed 
the murder.” 

Thayer started to say something, but Bartley 


WE RECEIVE AN EARLY VISITOR 269 


stopped him with the remark: “Here is your 
chance, Thayer, to solve a real mystery. It’s fine 
practice for that detective story you are going to 
write.” 

Thayer passed the last allusion by, but asked: 

“Do you mean that to-night-” 

Bartley broke in on him. “If all goes well, you 
will get the surprise of your life to-night.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 

HAYER had intended to spend the day 



finishing a short story, but Bartley’s state¬ 


ment at the close of breakfast evidently 


made him nervous. After a vain attempt to write, 
he gave it up in sheer disgust. He joined me out 
in the yard and asked if I really thought Bartley 
had found the criminal. Long experience with 
Bartley prompted me to say that I was pretty sure 
he had, for he never made such a positive statement 
unless he was at the end of a case. 

For some time we both made vague guesses as to 
who the murderer might be, and what Bartley in¬ 
tended to do when night came. This was, however, 
profitless, for to me the case seemed to have gone 
into a blind alley without the slightest hint of a 
solution. When Thayer left me, I threw aside the 
book I had been reading and tried to puzzle the 
thing out. I ran through in my mind all the things 
I knew regarding the murders. First, I thought 
of the mysterious death of Culver. That was the 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 


271 


crime we were interested in; the death of the min¬ 
ister, sad in itself, was not after all our first concern. 
But, though I thought of the story Carter had told 
us, and of the other things that we had discovered 
regarding Culver, in the end I gave it up. 

Bartley had left for town shortly after breakfast 
without saying just where he was going. I had 
hinted that I would go with him, but he suggested 
that perhaps I had better stay at the house, for he 
was expecting a telegram. It came around noon; 
in fact, there were two telegrams. I was tempted 
to open them, but I did not. We waited until almost 
one o’clock, but Bartley did not arrive, and in the 
end Thayer and I had lunch alone. 

The afternoon slowly slipped away. It was a 
cool day; the sun was fairly warm, but a breeze 
came sweeping from the hills—a breeze that caused 
the wheat in the near-by fields to bend before it and 
gently waved the branches of the trees in the yard. 
A lazy afternoon it was, with no one to talk to, for 
in the end, Thayer went back to his writing desk, 
leaving me to myself. 

Late in the afternoon Bartley drove into the yard, 
and, after leaving his car by the garage, came to 
where I was sitting under the trees. He looked 
cool, but there was an air of weariness about him. 
As he took the other chair, he threw me the copy 


272 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


of the local paper, with the remark there was some¬ 
thing in it which would interest me. 

The paper was a small—four-page—affair, a typ¬ 
ical country newspaper. As a rule, the copies I 
had seen had devoted a few inches only to national 
news, the rest being mostly boiler plate and locals. 
But, as I looked at the first page, I saw blazoned 
all over it the story of the arrest which Carter had 
made. I glanced at Bartley, and he simply nodded, 
saying I had better read the story. It told the story 
of Culver’s connection with the smuggled drugs and 
the arrest which had been made, somewhat differently 
from the way I had heard it from Carter’s lips. 
It was the conclusion that surprised me. The story 
ended by saying that this arrest was only the first 
that would be made. It hinted that the man ar¬ 
rested had made important confessions, and that 
within a few hours a more important arrest was to 
come. One thing I noticed in particular. The 
story was written in the clearest and most concise 
English—the work of some one who could write 
well. No country reporter had written that story. 

As I placed the paper down and glanced at Bart¬ 
ley, he said: “How do you like my story?’’ 

“Did you write it?” 

He nodded his admission, and I gazed at him in 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 


273 


astonishment; why he should spend his time writing 
for a country paper the story Carter had told us, 
was more than I could see. Seeing my astonish¬ 
ment, he drew his chair a bit closer. 

“I wanted that story in the paper to-night, and 
I wanted certain things to be said,” came his con¬ 
fession. “Carter, of course, does not expect to make 
that important arrest the paper mentions—that is, 
unless this story does what I think it will do.” 

“What’s that?” I asked. 

“Simply this: I have a suspicion that the person 
who reads it—the right person—may get a bit ex¬ 
cited. He will read that it says ‘an important ar¬ 
rest will be made within a few hours,’ perhaps he 
will decide to forestall that arrest and vanish.” 

“You mean-” I broke in on him. 

“I mean this: There is in this village some one 
who knows where those drugs are hidden—some 
one who thought he was perfectly secure—that there 
was not a single hint of suspicion regarding him. 
He will read the paper and become uneasy. That 
phrase, ‘an important arrest,’ will trouble him. He 
feels secure, but there is one thing he will be unable 
to understand. So far as he is aware, he is the only 
person who knows about the drugs. Yet the paper 
hints that some one else knows—that there will be 



274 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

an arrest made. Unless I miss my guess, sometime 
to-night, about eleven or twelve, he will lose his 
head, decide it’s time either to get out of town, or 
to take the drug to some other place. If so, we 
will be right there waiting for him. That piece in 
the paper is simply the fly to tempt the flight. It’s 
there to have him jump at our own time.” 

“But,” I protested, “that means that you know 
where the drugs are.” 

“Well,” he drawled back, “I think I know. It 
seems to me pretty certain that Culver bought that 
old house for no other purpose than to have a safe 
place to store them. You see no one ever went to 
the place; it was perfectly safe. There could be 
no reason on earth except that for his buying the 
house. So we will be there to-night waiting”—he 
rose to his feet, then added—“simply waiting.” 

“But, John,” I suggested, “it’s the murderer we 
want.” 

He paused to throw me a curious look, then re¬ 
marked, as he started for the house: “Oh, he won’t 
be very far away.” 

The telegrams were on the stand, and he opened 
them. Then, without a word, he took a pencil from 
his pocket, wrote for a moment on the first telegram, 
and handed it to me. In the dim light of the hall 
I read: 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 275 


London. 

Government issued no passport to Robert Culver. 
Can find nothing regarding man in war records. 

Lyle. 

As I turned to question Bartley, he anticipated 
me: 

“Lyle is one of the Scotland Yard group. I cabled 
for a little information and seem to have got it.” 

“But,” came my quick response, “if that is so, it 
means that Culver’s brother did not come from 
England.” 

As he started up the stairs to his room, he turned 
and said with a mocking smile: “It may mean many 
things, Pelt, but of course it’s not conclusive. He 
might have come under another name. Yet the 
English war records contain almost every name in 
England during the war. If his name was not there, 
then either he was not in England during the war, 

or else-” He threw out a hand in a sweeping 

gesture, then continued upstairs. 

Rather dazed, I wandered into the library. An¬ 
other and a wilder thought rushed into my mind. 
Was there any chance that Culver’s brother could 
be the murderer? Without the slightest suspicion 
I had accepted the story of his coming from England. 
Every one else had accepted it. Now the British 



276 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


government denied that it had given a passport to 
any man of that name. I knew also that Bartley 
had not neglected to check up the information from 
the government officials in New York, for the other 
telegram bore the government frank. Yet Culver 
himself had written weeks before he died that his 
brother was coming from England. Had the two 
men met, and during a quarrel had one killed the 
other? Bartley had said that if all went well he 
would end the case to-night. I could not but think 
that he was perhaps mistaken, for the case had sud¬ 
denly become more mysterious. 

Thayer came wandering into the room, asking if 
Bartley had returned. I told him of the telegram 
and saw his eyes grow big. For a while we dis¬ 
cussed the turn of affairs, being driven in the end 
to one conclusion—that perhaps my suspicions were 
unfounded. Culver’s brother had not arrived in 
town until some days after the murder. The fact 
that there had been no passport issued bearing his 
name did not mean so much as I had first thought. 
Often people came across under assumed names. 
There was not the slightest bit of evidence that 
even suggested that he had anything to do with his 
brother’s death. We left it there and waited for 
Bartley to return. 

Bartley was at his best during lunch, all care being 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 


277 


thrown aside. About the telegrams he would say 
nothing, though Thayer tried several times to get 
him started. A stranger would hardly have believed 
he had made the assertion a few hours before that 
the time was at hand when he was to solve the 
mystery. Instead, he talked and laughed, as if he 
did not have a single care on his mind—as if crime 
and criminals had never entered his world. 

But, lunch over, his manner changed. The house¬ 
keeper had cleared the table, while we lingered over 
our cigars. When she left the room he turned, his 
manner becoming at once serious. 

“To-night,” he said, fingering a fork which had 
been forgotten, “I hope to be able to give you some 
information as to who killed both Culver and the 
minister. It was the same person, and I don’t think 
there is going to be much difficulty in proving it. 
There are only one or two small threads to pull up.” 

He lighted a cigar, and, with a glance at our eager 
faces, went on: “Both Carter and myself think that 
if the shipment of drugs did not reach New York, 
then it is still here in Chester. We also believe 
that there is little doubt the drugs are hidden some¬ 
where in that house Culver bought. The best thing 
is to catch the person with the drugs in his posses¬ 
sion. That is why we are going to the house 
to-night.” 


278 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

For some reason or other Thayer did not ask 
any questions, and we passed the next hours just 
loafing about the house. It was about seven when 
Bartley, who had left the room, returned, and, throw¬ 
ing me a squatty, black automatic revolver, re¬ 
marked it was about time we started, and that I 
had better have a gun with me. 

A few moments later we were in his car, swinging 
down the road toward the town. I wondered if he 
was going to drive directly in front of the old house, 
yet I knew he could not leave his car near it. Pres¬ 
ently we reached the long hill which led to the 
house, climbed it, and swept past the place. It 
looked empty and silent, but the lower windows 
were not all boarded up, as they had been when I 
first saw it. There was not the slightest sign of 
life about the place, nor any hint that any one had 
been there. I got these impressions, as we went 
by, for the car did not stop. Since I knew that 
Bartley was expecting some one to come to the 
house, I wondered just where we were going, and 
where he would leave his car. 

I soon found out; for about a quarter of a mile 
past the house there appeared a small and very 
uneven road that ran down into the woods. It left 
the main road and became simply a track which had 
been used for logging. Though the going was rough, 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 


279 


and the road very narrow, Bartley drove his car 
under low-hanging boughs of the trees. The path, 
for that was about all it was, ran around the trees, 
and there were several stumps in the center of it. 

We stopped in a small clearing where in the past 
some logging concern had a camp. The long, rough 
buildings, now closed and deserted, stood at the 
extreme end of the open space. Here Bartley 
stopped the car and climbed out. For a moment 
he stood looking around, as if seeking his direction; 
then, with a sign for us to follow, he struck off across 
the clearing and into the woods. 

It was almost dark, and under the trees the going 
was not only uneven, but also difficult. Once there 
had been some kind of path, but evidently it had 
not been used for years. The vines had grown over 
the cleared space, and they plucked at our feet. 
The branches of the small trees on each side whipped 
across our faces, and I heard Thayer mutter an oath, 
as he tripped and almost fell. Bartley was in the 
lead, walking with the sureness of a man who knew 
just where he was going. 

In about five minutes we came out of the woods 
and into a field. It stretched across to a stone wall. 
Beyond the wall, simply a mass in the darkness, I 
made out the form of a building—a building that 
had a familiar appearance. Here Bartley paused 


280 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


to say that we were in the rear of the house where 
Culver had been found murdered; then he struck 
off again in the shadow of the trees. 

A few feet beyond us the trees ran down to the 
stone wall. There was a field to cross, which Bart¬ 
ley entered apparently with little fear of being seen 
by any one who might happen to be in the house. 
However, this was a small risk, for if any one saw 
us, he would have to be outside. On this side, the 
windows of the house were boarded, from which 
it would be impossible to look out. We paused 
again, this time under the shadow of the broken- 
down barn. 

Just as we stopped, a man disentangled himself 
from the shadows and came toward us. I gave a 
start, but in a second saw that it was some one 
whom Bartley knew. He went over to him, and 
for a moment or so they held a whispered conversa¬ 
tion. Then the man’s figure melted into darkness, 
as Bartley came back to our side. 

“That was one of Carter’s men. He says that 
no one has been near the house,” came his low voice. 

I heard Thayer mutter, and Bartley spoke again: 

“Carter has several of his men here, and he him¬ 
self is in the house. We are to wait out here. 
There is a man in the front, and one in the rear, 
so we will slip into the barn and wait.” 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 


281 


“May I smoke?” pleaded Thayer. 

Bartley said he must not, and we slipped through 
the back of the barn, where the side had fallen away, 
into what remained of the barn itself. It had been 
a small building, and it was a wonder that it could 
stand at all. The front was gone, and great gaps 
in the side showed where the boards had fallen off. 
Inside there was simply an old carriage, and the 
dirt floor was strewn with boards and various odds 
and ends. From the interior one could get a good 
view of the house, which was only a few feet away. 
I could but think, however, that it was not the best 
sort of place in which to spend a few hours. 

Our wait was apt to be a long one and, now that 
the night had fallen, a dark one. The wind was 
blowing a little, but it was very still, except for the 
crickets, with which the barn seemed alive, their 
chirps coming from every side. The carriage 
seemed to me to offer the solution of where to sit. 
So I climbed into it; though the cushions were in 
ruins, yet they were softer than the floor, and there 
was a clear view of the house. Whispering to 
Thayer, he climbed in after me, and we settled back 
to wait. Where Bartley went, I could not see, but 
I saw his dim form vanish. 

For a while we sat there, silent. Before us was 
the open space where the barn door had been. 


282 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


Across from that, a few yards at the most, was the 
black shadow of the house—lonely and somber in 
the stillness. There was not the slightest sign of 
any moving thing, and the house was very still. I 
tried to picture the lonesome wait that Carter was 
having, and wondered if, after all, any one would 
come. Thayer must have had the same thought, 
for, as the cushions creaked, when he nervously 
shifted his position, he whispered something about 
the crazy idea of expecting any one to walk up and 
be caught. 

An hour passed, then two hours; and slowly the 
third hour. Long before that time was reached, 
however, we had climbed out of the carriage to 
stretch our benumbed legs, and we had walked 
around in the small b&rn. But there had been no 
signs of any person coming to the house, and we 
had not heard a thing. Waiting in the darkness 
for something that you are not sure about is at the 
best tiring. In this case, long before the first hour 
had passed, it had got on my nerves, and, as the 
time slowly dragged on, it became worse. Thayer 
was grumbling about the “fool thing” we were do¬ 
ing, when I heard the sound of an automobile chug¬ 
ging up the hill before the house. 

The car was coming slowly, as if the steep grade 
taxed the power of the engine. We heard it splutter 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 


283 


and snort; then, as it topped the rise, there came 
the smooth sound of the engine. It did not stop, 
but, as we looked out of the barn door, we saw the 
lights sweep past the house and up the road. For 
several moments we heard the sound of the engine, 
then all at once it died away. Puzzled at this, for 
I doubted if the car had gone so far that we were 
unable to hear it, I started to whisper to Thayer. 
Just as I did so, Bartley glided suddenly from the 
shadow. 

“I think perhaps our man has come,” he whis¬ 
pered. “Keep as still as you can for a while. If 
you hear anything in the house, make a rush for 
it.” Before we could answer, he vanished again. 

Keeping in the darker shadows—though the barn 
was so dark it is doubtful if I could have been seen— 
I went to the door. There was nothing in sight. 
Still, I looked eagerly and impatiently. I hardly 
know what I expected, for it was almost impossible 
to see; yet I know I expected something. I started, 
as Thayer’s hand fell on my shoulder, and I knew 
that he was also watching. The moments dragged 
on, as we stood there, but nothing could be seen or 
heard. 

Suddenly, out there in the darkness of the yard, 
I heard a sound as though some one had stumbled. 
There came a half-smothered oath, and then there 


284 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

darted across the line of our vision the figure of a 
man. For the space of a second we saw it, then 
it melted into the darker shadow of the house. I 
felt Thayer’s fingers sink deeply into my arm, as 
we knew our vigil was about to end. Some one 
had come to the house, as Bartley had expected, 
and was about to go inside. 

I knew that Bartley wished to catch the man with 
the drugs in his possession. There could be no 
chance then of his escaping the penalty of the law. 
Somewhere in the house cocaine was concealed. 
Both Bartley and Carter thought that. But, as I 
waited for some sign from the house, the suspense 
became almost unbearable. The house was still 
silent; and though the man must have entered there 
was nothing to indicate what was taking place. The 
moments dragged on, each one seeming endless, as 
we waited under the shadows of the barn wall. 

The silence was suddenly broken by the sound of 
a shot, fired within the house. The sharp report 
came so unexpectedly that for a moment I stood 
motionless, listening. As the echo died away, there 
came a long, sharp whistle, which rose and fell upon 
the night air. I started on a run for the house, 
reached its side, then ran toward the front. From 
the sounds that came to my ears, some sort of 
struggle must have been going on within, and I 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 285 

paused for a second to listen. Then again I started 
to run. 

As I swung round the front of the house by the 
edge of the piazza, I ran smash into a man running 
in the opposite direction. We had not seen each 
other and came together with a great deal of force. 
As I recovered my balance, by sheer instinct I 
grabbed him. With an oath he shook my hand 
from his coat, but, with a cry for help, I seized him 
again. For a moment we struggled back and forth, 
the man trying to escape. He might have suc¬ 
ceeded, for he was heavier than I, but for the fact 
that Thayer came to my assistance. As he reached 
me, Bartley came running to my side. 

The three of us had little difficulty in holding the 
man. I had not seen his face, and the moment he 
was securely held he became silent. Who it was, 
I did not know. With his hand fastened in the 
man’s collar, Bartley walked him up the piazza and 
into the house, taking us into the large room off 
the hall. There was a lamp there, its feeble light 
leaving the greater portion of the room in deep 
shadows. But the light was bright enough for us 
to recognize the man Bartley was holding. As the 
light fell across the face, twisted with rage, I saw 
that it was Culver’s brother. 

I heard Thayer give a low whistle—one of con- 


286 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


stemation and surprise. Upon Bartley’s face there 
was no wonder, only a half smile, as he saw my 
startled glance. For a second our gaze held Culver; 
then suddenly, his voice almost shrieking, he 
yelled: “What does this mean?” 

As if in answer to the question, Carter came into 
the room from the hall. There was a heavy black 
bag in his hand, and I saw him slowly nod, as his 
eyes met Bartley’s. I noticed that Culver’s face 
had whitened a little, as he saw the bag Carter was 
holding, and suddenly he became silent. Carter 
called to one of his men, who went over and, with 
gun in hand, stood by Culver; then Bartley and the 
government man went out into the hall. 

As we waited for them to return, I realized that 
Carter’s part in the case was over. There seemed 
little doubt that the black bag contained the hidden 
drug. Yet the great surprise to me was that it had 
been Culver’s brother he had captured. I had not 
expected he would know where the drug had been 
hidden. Then another thought struck me; Carter 
had his man, but Bartley still had to arrest the man 
who had committed the two murders. 

There came the long-drawn-out shriek of an auto¬ 
mobile horn from the road. As it died away, Car¬ 
ter and Bartley returned, and, as Carter motioned 
to his man to bring Culver, Bartley informed me 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 


287 


that the car had been brought from the woods where 
we had left it. We went out into the yard, where 
we found another man on guard. We climbed into 
Bartley’s car, which was standing in front of another 
car belonging to Carter. 

The ride back to town was a silent one, also a 
fast one. Bartley drove down the long hill as if 
speed laws had never been invented, the car swaying 
and lurching all over the road. Reaching the town 
limits, we sped down the car tracks and ended in 
front of the police station. Just as we climbed 
out Carter stopped behftid us. 

We were the first in the station, the others fol¬ 
lowing. There was a man at the desk, no one else 
in the room. The police officer on duty looked at 
us curiously, motioning to the back room. With¬ 
out bothering to knock, Bartley pushed open 
the door. From his chair behind the desk the chief 
gave us a startled glance; and Kelly, who seemed to 
be nervous, came to our side. In a second Carter 
had closed the door and, walking over to the desk, 
threw the black bag on its top. 

In the silence which followed all eyes turned to 
the bag. Then with a sudden start, as though 
realizing what it foreboded, the chief s startled 
glance went back to Culver. The man stood just 
inside the closed door, his face white, his hands 


288 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


trembling. Behind him, gun in hand, stood one of 
Carter’s men, motionless. Whatever evidence Car¬ 
ter might have against the man, one thing was sure: 
Culver had lost whatever nerve he once might have 
had. Even as I looked at him, I saw the little black 
mustache tremble. 

Silently Carter went over to the table and opened 
the bag. As he pulled its mouth wide, a small vial 
rolled down on the table, then to the floor, the glass 
breaking into a hundred pieces, as a small heap of 
white crystals formed by the table leg. Bartley 
bent, picking up a portion of the powder, which he 
carefully smelt and tasted. As he straightened up, 
he gave Carter a significant look. 

Though the chief, I found later, knew about Car¬ 
ter and what he was after, yet he was puzzled. Cul¬ 
ver, at least, he had not expected to see. In a few 
words Carter told of his wait in the house, how 
Culver had come, gone up the stairs, and later re¬ 
turned with the bag in his hand. It was then Car¬ 
ter had grabbed him, and, as Culver shook himself 
away and started for the door, he fired one shot 
as a warning. As we had just seen, the bag was 
filled with vials of cocaine, and there must have been 
at least seventy-five thousand dollars’ worth before 
us. 

Just as he finished, Culver burst forth, his voice 


WE HAVE OUR SURPRISE 289 

hoarse with emotion: “That’s all right, but you have 
nothing on me.” 

I saw Bartley give him a little look; then he 
turned to Carter. “Whom do you think you have 
arrested?” he asked. 

“Why Robert Culver, brother of the murdered 
man.” 

Bartley turned to the chief, his voice grave: 

“Chief, I ask that you arrest the man before you 
for murder.” 

“Murder!” gasped the chief. 

“Yes,” came the cool voice, “for the murder that 
was committed a few days ago and for the murder of 
the minister.” 

“But,” protested the chief, “you can’t charge this 
man with the first murder. He was not in the 
country then.” 

My eyes had been on Culver’s face, and at Bart¬ 
ley’s words I saw the red flush of anger fade, and 
his face turned very pale. Bartley might not be 
right in what he said, but the man was afraid. I 
turned as Bartley asked: 

“And who do you think this man is, chief?” 

“Why it’s Culver’s brother—Robert, I think his 
name is.’ 

Like a shot came back the answer: “It’s nothing 
of the kind. This man is the man you presumed was 


290 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


murdered. His name may be Culver, but it’s James 
Culver, the man who lived in your village.” 

“But,” insisted the chief, his eyes vainly appeal¬ 
ing to us all, “Mr. Bartley, James Culver is dead. 
We found his body in that old house.” 

Slowly Bartley shook his head. “No, chief, 
James Culver is not dead. He is standing before 
you. He is the man Carter arrested, and he is 
guilty of the murder of his brother Robert and of 
the minister.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 

I N the deep silence that fell, I saw the chief move 
nervously, as he gave a doubting glance at 
Bartley. I could clearly see he did not believe 
a word that he had heard. Kelly seemed far more 
amused than anything else, as though it were all a 
joke. Only Carter, whose expression told that he 
did not understand, seemed to accept without ques¬ 
tion what Bartley had said. 

One thing, and one thing alone, caused me to be¬ 
lieve that perhaps Bartley was right. It was Culver 
himself. Not only was his face ashen, but his whole 
body was trembling. The man was frightened, as 
if his nerve had suddenly left him, and he showed 
his fear. As all eyes turned upon him, his face 
slowly reddened under our gaze, and he suddenly 
burst forth: 

“That’s a lie—a damned lie. I just got in this 
country a few days ago. My brother was killed 
before I landed.” 

I saw the chief and Kelly nod in agreement, as 
their eyes met, and, from the look on their faces, 
291 


292 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

they must have thought Bartley had suddenly gone 
crazy. 

Bartley did not reply to Culver’s outburst, simply 
studying him a moment. Under the look the man 
dropped his gaze and moved uneasily to and fro. It 
seemed incredible to me that Bartley could be right, 
and that the man before us was the Culver we had 
thought murdered. Though the two men were 
about the same build, still they did not look alike. 
The dead man I had stumbled upon, had been con¬ 
spicuous for his long ears and the very large nose;- 
this man’s ears were small, and his nose was straight 
and little. The murdered man had a head well 
covered with hair, this man was rapidly becoming 
bald. So, as I looked at him, I could but wonder 
why Bartley should have said that James Culver 
had not been murdered, but was standing before us. 
Only one thing restrained me from saying he was 
wrong—it was the fact that Bartley was seldom 
mistaken in his conclusions. 

He turned to the chief. “Chief,” he said, “there 
is not a doubt in the world that this man is the Cul¬ 
ver you thought was murdered. This is the James 
Culver who lived in your village, the man you thought 
was dead. This man never was in England. I 
can prove what I say by a dozen things.” 

The chief and Kelly had been watching Bartley, 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 


293 


as he spoke, and for a moment Culver was neglected. 
Carter, who had been standing between him and the 
door of the police station, had shifted his position 
and now stood near the table. Thayer was so 
muddled that he hardly knew where any one was. 
I had noticed Culver move toward the door, and, 
just as Bartley finished his statement, he made a 
quick dash for the other room. 

Between him and the open air was one room— 
the police station—and a policeman. Outside by 
the curb were three automobiles, and the engine of 
one was running. The last, perhaps, was the reason 
which impelled the man to do what he did. Before 
I could lift my voice in warning, and at the moment 
when all eyes were turned on Bartley, Culver gave 
one leap for the door. He reached it in a second, 
slipping into the other room, as he slammed the door 
in our startled faces. 

The whole thing happened so quickly that for a 
second or so we were too astonished to move. We 
found out later that the desk officer, who knew noth¬ 
ing of what was going on in the chief’s office, was 
roused from a paper he was reading by Culver wildly 
rushing through the room for the open air. It was 
Bartley who first dashed for the door and flung it 
open, with myself close behind him. We reached 
the sidewalk in time to see Culver leap into the car 


294 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

whose engine was running. He threw over the gear, 
and the car started down the street. With a cry to 
the chief to follow, Bartley leaped into his car, I 
after him. Carter came tumbling in on us, just as 
the car started with a jump. 

Culver was several hundred yards away, his car 
increasing in speed with every second. He swung 
down the length of the square, around the corner 
and across the car tracks—we after him. He was 
evidently heading for the country, hoping to escape 
in the darkness. All doubts of his guilt had vanished 
from my mind. Innocent men did not try to escape 
in this wild manner. 

There was little traffic in the street, and I knew 
that, in a long run, Culver’s chances of getting away 
were slim. Bartley’s car was one of the best-known 
makes in the world—a famous English machine, a 
great deal more powerful than the car Culver was 
in. In a long chase there could be only one out¬ 
come. Even within the town limits we lessened the 
distance between the two cars to about a hundred 
yards. But, as Culver swung around another cor¬ 
ner, a street car blocked our way, and it was several 
moments before we got around it. Culver had once 
more gained a long lead. 

As we got going again, I could see the tail light of 
his car in the distance. He had reached the town 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 


295 


limits and was headed out on the long, straight 
country road, driving at a terrific speed. A car 
coming out of a driveway stalled in front of us, 
blocking the road and forcing Bartley to stop. 
When we got going again, Culver must have been 
almost a mile ahead. 

Little by little Bartley increased the speed of his 
car till the figures on the dial crept from forty miles 
to fifty, slowly swung over fifty, and in the end re¬ 
mained steady at sixty. The car was running like 
the well-made machine it was—almost silently, and 
with a hint of more power in reserve if we needed 
it. The lamps threw a wide shaft of light down the 
white road, a road that seemed to be rising up to 
hit us, as we swept along. The fields were but 
a moving reel of blackness on each side, and 
ahead was the red tail light of Culver’s on-rushing 
car. 

I saw Carter take his revolver from his pocket, 
but at the sight of it Bartley touched his arm and 
shook his head. Evidently he did not wish a shot 
to be taken at the man. We were gaining on him 
every yard, and it seemed it would be only a few 
moments before we would be by his side. 

All at once the road turned at a right angle to 
cross a railroad track, then ran, straight as an arrow, 
parallel to the railroad. As we bumped over the 


296 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


track, we heard in the distance the long shriek of a 
locomotive; and, as we turned on the road, we saw 
in the distance the headlight, as it rushed toward us. 
Half a mile was covered when I saw that the road 
again crossed the track, and at the same time I saw 
something else. 

We were only about two hundred yards behind 
Culver, and I knew there was hardly a chance in the 
world for him to cross the track ahead of the train. 
We should catch him at the crossing, where he would 
have to stop, while the train swept by. The road 
formed a half circle, as it swept over the tracks, a 
crossing without gate or watchman. Culver of 
course had seen the train; he could not help seeing 
it, for the headlight was a blaze of flame before him. 
Yet he did not slacken his speed. I saw him turn 
and give a look back at us, then his car gave a sud¬ 
den burst of speed. He was going to try to beat the 
train to the crossing. 

“The fool is going to try to make it!” exclaimed 
Carter. 

With a roar the train swept toward us, the head¬ 
light getting larger every instant. For a second, as 
Culver swung over the tracks, I thought he would 
make it, and then I heard a faint smash, as the train 
struck his car. Bartley threw on his brakes, and 
we slid almost up to the tracks. The wind from the 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 297 

cars swept our faces, and we heard the groan of the 
brakes, as the train began to come to a stop. 

We all jumped from the car, and I felt sick at 
what I knew I must see. Culver had not been able 
to cross ahead of the train, and he had been struck 
when his car was in the center of the tracks. We 
had to wait a moment till the long train, which was 
slowly coming to a stop, went by; then we hurried 
across the tracks. No one spoke; no one wished to 
say a word. 

The car had been thrown about fifty feet, and we 
found it a mass of wreckage in the ditch by the side 
of the road. We found Culver jammed against 
what was left of the steering wheel, and, as we bent 
over him, we thought for a moment that he was dead. 
But, as Carter and Bartley tenderly bore him over 
to the grass, he opened his eyes and gave a slight 
shudder. Carefully Bartley raised the man’s head, 
and it needed but a glance to see that he would 
last only a moment. 

The eyes of the dying man looked wildly around 
him; then, as they fell on Bartley, there came a look 
of recognition. For a moment they closed, and I 
thought it was all over, but they opened again, and 
he half gasped: “You win.” Then he became si¬ 
lent. In the stillness I could hear the labored 
breathing, the gasps of pain. 


298 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


Again the eyes opened, and I saw the man’s lips 
move in an attempt to speak. There seemed to be 
some sort of appeal in his eyes. Seeing it, Bartley 
dropped on the grass by his side. The man made 
an effort to speak, failed, then tried again, panting 
out: 

“You—right—I killed both—had to. I am James 
Cul-” 

Silence came again, as the man’s voice trailed 
away, and in the silence I heard the sound of voices, 
the people coming from the train. There came also, 
far down the road, the sound of a rapidly approach¬ 
ing automobile; and, as I turned, I saw its lights 
when the car swept over the track. The dying man 
may have heard the sound, I cannot tell. He tried 
to raise himself on his arm, and his eyes sought ner¬ 
vously for Bartley. As Bartley’s arm went under 
his shoulders, he gasped out: 

“The girl—some money in bank—New York— 
under name Cannon.” The voice faded away into 
a deep silence; he gave one little shudder, and Bart¬ 
ley gently placed the man’s head on the grass. He 
was dead. 

Just as we rose and stood looking soberly at the 
still figure on the grass, Thayer, with the chief and 
Kelly, reached our side, coming from the car which 
had stopped in the road. I saw Thayer’s face turn 



BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 


299 


white, as he looked at Culver, while Bartley in a 
few words told what had happened. His news of 
the confession which had come from the dead man’s 
lips, brought no answering reply from either the 
chief or Kelly. Both were too stunned to speak. 

The conductor of the train and several others had 
now reached the spot, and arrangements were made 
to take the body to Chester. We went back to our 
car, and the ride to Thayer’s house was a silent one, 
none of us having a word to say. When we reached 
the house, to my surprise the chief and Kelly came 
in with us; and, after a conversation over the tele¬ 
phone, the chief joined us in the library. Without 
a word Thayer had left the room and just as silently 
returned with six tall glasses, handing one, without 
speaking, to each of us. From the way each man 
drank his Scotch, there was no doubt we all thought 
the drink was needed. 

The chief placed his empty glass on the desk and 
turned to Bartley, his voice a little unsteady, as he 
confessed: 

“Mr. Bartley, things have come with such a rush 
to-night that my head’s in a whirl. Tell me how 
you ever found out that that man was James Culver. 
He does not look like the man who lived here.” 

That was the question we all wished answered. 
Bartley had ended his case, having solved it in a 


300 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 

startling manner. But even the fact that the man 
had confessed before he died, did not make it any 
clearer in my mind. I could see that the others in 
the room felt the same way. 

Bartley was silent a moment before he spoke, say¬ 
ing at last: “Well, it was a combination of many 
things, little clews that had to be woven into one big 
clew. From the very first I was suspicious that the 
affair was far more mysterious than you thought.” 

“From the first?” Thayer ventured. 

“Yes, from the very first I felt that the murder of 
Culver was not the simple thing it appeared to be. 
After I heard of the manner in which he kept to him¬ 
self and had nothing to do with the people of the 
town, I was pretty sure he had some ulterior reason 
for being here. Either he had come to this little 
place to hide, or else he had some scheme in view. 
Even before Carter told me of the case he was work¬ 
ing on, I had come to the conclusion that Culver was 
interested in drugs.” 

“How did you make that out?” asked Carter. 

“It was rather simple. The first thing was his 
being in the town at all. The next was the fact 
that he added hardly any deposits to his bank ac¬ 
count until after the roads to the north had opened. 
Then, of course, the stories of the cars parked out¬ 
side his house late at night told pretty plainly that 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 


301 


he was mixed up in something crooked. It could 
not be liquor, for that was too bulky. When I 
heard that Culver was the owner of the old house, I 
decided that perhaps drugs were the answer. It also 
explained to me why he left the city.” 

He paused to light a cigar and then continued: 
“Later I found out who he was, and about his career 
as a fake broker. Carter, of course, checked up the 
whole theory when he told us of his case.” 

“That’s all right,” came the chief’s rough voice, 
“but what I want to know is this: How in the devil 
did you find out that this man we thought was the 
brother was actually the Culver we knew lived here?” 

Bartley informed him that it was the district at¬ 
torney of New York who first put the suspicion in 
his mind. The district attorney in his records had 
the evidence used in closing up Culver’s fake bro¬ 
kerage house. They mentioned that he had a 
brother, also the fact the two men looked alike. If 
that were so, then the man murdered and the brother 
claiming to be from England must have a similar 
appearance. But they had not. That meant that 
the man claiming to be the brother—the man who 
was said to have come from England—could not be 
the brother at all. I easily discovered that the man 
had not been in England.” 

“How did you discover that?” Thayer queried. 


302 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


“A simple thing—what came very near being a 
serious automobile accident.” 

“An automobile accident?” was Kelly’s surprised 
question. 

“Yes, what came near being one. After this so- 
called Robert Culver had arrived, Pelt and I saw 
him come very near being smashed up while driving 
a car. He was driving with one hand and reading 
a paper at the same time. A car coming at a ter¬ 
rific speed from the opposite direction was almost 
upon him before he glanced up. He had just time 
to turn out—he had to act from sheer instinct; there 
was no time to think—and he turned to the right.” 

“What under the heavens has his turning to the 
right got to do with it?” 

“Simply this,” was Bartley’s reply: “The man 
driving the car was presumed to be Culver’s brother, 
who had lived for years in England. In his car he 
was confronted by a situation in which he had no 
time to think. What he did had to be done quickly, 
by instinct. He acted subconsciously, without a 
thought of what he was doing, and he turned out to 
the right to avoid the other car. If he had turned to 
the left, he would have been smashed.” 

He paused, then added: “But, if he had lived in 
England for many years, when he made that quick 
turn he would have done what they do over there, 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 


303 


turned to the left. He did not, he turned to the 
right, and I decided on the spot that whatever the 
man might be, he at least had not come from 
England. 

I heard a sudden gasp from Thayer, and Carter 
silently nodded his agreement. But Bartley did not 
wait for any one to speak; he went on; 

“The next thing was to decide who the man might 
be, and that was not so easy. But three things 
aided me in discovering that the man was James 
Culver himself.” 

“What were they?” I asked impatiently. 

“A dog, finger prints, and a picture of the man’s 
voice.” 

“Of what?” began the chief. 

Bartley half smiled. “Let us start with the first 
—the dog. The night Culver was murdered, his 
dog was killed. The niece says she heard it give 
one loud bark, no more. Now the dog, an Airedale, 
was presumed to be a ‘one man dog.’ That night, 
about midnight, some one came through the yard. 
If it had been a stranger, the dog would have barked 
his head off—and those dogs can make some noise. 
Instead, he gave one bark—one of welcome—for he 
knew who the person was. He was killed because 
Culver was afraid it would cause comment if later 
the dog never acted strangely with him. The dog’s 


304 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


death started me thinking; it was such a foolish 
thing to do. A stranger would kill him to prevent 
his barking. But he only barked once, because he 
knew the person. I began to wonder who it might 
be. There are not many people an Airedale makes 
friends with.” 

He paused again, to go on: “But that was a 
guess. Then, after the time Culver almost had his 
accident; I got a finger print.” 

“But, Bartley,” protested Carter, “how could you 
get the finger print of a man who had been away 
for weeks?” 

“That was easy. There was one place where I 
found several finger prints. Culver was a reader, 
also a smoker. In his books I found several places 
where a finger tip, mdistened by a wet cigar, had left 
its imprint. They were the prints of the man who 
months before had read the books. I wanted to get 
a finger print of the so-called brother from England. 
That was easy; there were many ways of doing it. 
When the prints were enlarged and compared, I 
found one very interesting thing: I discovered that 
the finger prints in the books and the one I had got 
on my cigarette case were alike. In other words, 
the finger prints of the man who had lived in the 
house months before and the man who claimed to 
have just arrived from England were identical. 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 


305 


Since the finger prints of no two men are ever alike, 
I knew then they were made by the same man.” 

He slowly relighted his cigar, which had gone out, 
gave a look around, and, seeing that we were waiting 
for him to tell the rest, went on: 

“Then I found that Culver had been a singer, and 
that the present man also sang. In his room there 
were phonograph records which he had made of 
songs he had sung. But these were made several 
years ago. I noticed that one had not been played 
more than twice. When I persuaded the minister to 
invite the Culver who claimed to be from England to 
sing, I had a man come from New York, and I 
asked him if he could make a record of his voice. 
He told him he was going to do the same with all 
those who sang at the church social. Culver fell. 
The record was made, and I had the voice on both 
records photographed.” 

“You had what?” burst from both the chief and 
Kelly. 

Bartley grinned back at them. “I had the voice 
photographed. You know, that is being done to¬ 
day. The vibrations of the voice are taken on a 
delicate instrument and recorded in waving lines; a 
picture can be made of the vibrations. They re¬ 
mind you somewhat of the way the temperature is 
taken on a recording machine. Now we had the 


306 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


voice on the old phonograph record, on which James 
Culver had recorded his song several years before, 
and the voice recorded the other night photographed. 
The song was the same, and the vibrations of both 
records were the same in the pictures of the voices 
that were taken. In other words, the same man 
had made both records. That being so, it meant 
that the James Culver who had lived in the town for 
months, and who you thought was murdered, and 
the so-called English brother—were the same man.” 

“But,” the chief protested, “but, Mr. Bartley, the 
two men did not look alike. That murdered man 
was the Culver I had seen; this man, just killed, does 
not look like him.” 

Bartley agreed to this, saying that was one of the 
reasons he had become suspicious. In the end he 
had decided the so-called brother was Culver him¬ 
self. On this score the decision had been caused 
by the finger prints, the photographing of the voice, 
and also the fact that no one but James Culver and 
the man who had been killed in his car after the trip 
to Chester with the drug, could know where the drug 
was hidden. No brother from England could have 
known that. 

I could see that the chief was still puzzled and 
acted as though he scarcely could believe it all. He 
had see James Culver, and the man who had just 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 


307 


died did not look like him. How then was Bartley 
so sure it was the man he had known, when their 
appearance was so very much different. 

As if in answer to his thoughts, Bartley said: 
“Chief, there are some things in this case we shall 
never be able to clear up, little matters of detail 
which, after all, are not of the greatest importance 
now. We know why Culver came to Chester, and 
what he did here. We also know that he lost most 
of his money in the stock market; and, thinking he 
could get it back in a rise in the market, he sold his 
niece’s property and used the money he received. 
Perhaps—and I think it is—the turning point came 
right here. The house he dealt with failed, and 
within a few weeks he would have to give an account 
to his niece of his trusteeship. I think it was then 
he decided to go away, and it’s my impression he 
never expected to return. But something else came 
along to cause him to change his plans: 

“What was that?” some one asked. 

“He received news there was to be another ship¬ 
ment of drugs, and the plan was made to double- 
cross the ring, and for him and the Montreal man 
to divide the profits. Then the man who brought 
the drugs down was killed on his return trip. It was 
then that Culver made up his mind not only to go 
away, but later to return after the excitement had 


308 


THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


died out. Perhaps the idea of murdering his brother 
came at that time.” 

He paused for a moment, then continued: “We 
do not know, of course, why Culver thought he must 
get his brother out of the way. I found out in New 
York that his brother had made a good deal of trou¬ 
ble for him. He once worked in one of his offices 
and got money from him on the threat to expose that 
he was bucketing orders. The brother must have 
had something in view, for I think he wrote to Culver 
that he was coming to see him. Maybe it was then 
he thought of killing him and taking his brother’s 
place. The change could be easily made. No one 
in Chester would know or be suspicious. All Cul¬ 
ver wished was a few weeks in which to dispose of 
the drug hidden in the old house. Then some day 
he would have simply vanished. 

“But Mr. Bartley,” begged the chief, “that may 
be so; yet the Culver we saw and the man just killed 
by the train, did not look alike at all. What 
happened?” 

“That is very simple to answer. Culver’s face, 
because of his great ears and large nose, was not 
easy to forget. He simply went to some expert in 
facial surgery and had his face made over. It’s a 
rather easy operation. The large lobes of his ears 
were cut down, the hook in the nose taken a Way, and 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 


309 


the great mass of hair was thinned out by X-rays. 
When it was all over, and he had grown a little mus¬ 
tache, he would not be recognized, even by his own 
mother. The long lobes of his ears had vanished, 
the nose had a different shape, the curve of his face 
was changed. Hardly any one knew him in Chester, 
and he was perfectly safe in returning. When I 
saw him that day after he was presumed to have 
arrived from England, I noticed that his nose had 
been operated on, but I thought nothing of it then.” 

Bartley admitted that his first suspicions began 
when he found out that Culver was the owner of the 
old house. The shot that had broken the mirror 
convinced him that the murdered man did not know 
his way about the house. If he had, he would have 
known that it was a reflection that he saw in a mir¬ 
ror, and would not have fired at it. Culver, know¬ 
ing the house, as he must, since he owned it, would 
not have fired the shot into the mirror; a stranger 
would have done that, but not a person who knew 
that the mirror was there. 

I could see that the chief understood how Culver 
was able to change his features, but he wondered 
why no one had recognized him. Bartley asked him 
who there was that could do so. The girl had seen 
him but three times in her life, the housekeeper— 
the new one—perhaps had never seen him. The 


310 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


people of the village only saw him when he passed 
by in his car. All he had to do, when he returned 
after the facial operation, was either to stick close to 
the house, or else do what he had never done before 
—to mingle with people. In either case there was 
not a soul who could tell that he was not the man he 
claimed to be. 

Suddenly, as though remembering there was an¬ 
other murder to be accounted for, Thayer asked Why 
it was Culver had killed the minister. 

“Because,” Bartley replied, “the minister recog¬ 
nized him. How he did it, I do not know; but for 
some unknown reason he did. That explains those 
last few words he uttered, ‘Not—who—I thought.’ 
I knew Culver killed him because of one thing. You 
remember that, under the window of the study, where 
the murderer stood when he struck through the cur¬ 
tain, was an old Christmas tree, its branches faded 
and dried. We went direct to Culver’s and saw him. 
When he entered the room, on his trouser leg I saw 
three or four of the little brown pine needles from 
the Christmas tree. I doubt if there was another 
dead Christmas tree for miles around. When he 
stood under the window, the dried needles stuck to 
his clothes. They proved he had been there, and 
there was little doubt in my mind he killed the min¬ 
ister—though I doubt if one could ever prove it in a 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 311 

manner that would satisfy a jury. Anyway, he con¬ 
fessed to both crimes. 

There was a long silence, in which I saw the men 
give one another a look, as though agreeing that it 
was all satisfactory. It was Bartley who broke the 
silence, to add: 

“Of course there were other things that made me 
suspicious. Robert Culver was afraid of the dark 
—a psychological fear. The supposed brother, 
when he came, left his light burning all night; he 
also was afraid of the dark. The man presumed to 
be murdered was a great reader of books mostly 
about spiritualism. The man claiming to be his 
brother also read the same kind of books. Then the 
story of the two men being seen the day of the mur¬ 
der in various parts of the town puzzled me, till I 
found out that neither the doctor nor the minister 
saw the face, though both thought they did see Cul¬ 
ver and his brother, both going to the deserted house 
where the appointment had been made.” 

I could see by the chief’s face that he was run¬ 
ning the thing over in his mind, and at last he rose 
to his feet. Taking his hat he stood looking at 
Bartley, an admiring expression on his face. Then 
all at once he started: 

“There are more things in heaven-” But he 

did not finish the quotation. Instead, he said: “I 


312 THE HOUSE BY THE ROAD 


guess you are right, Mr. Bartley, though I don’t see 
it all yet. But you got your man—anyway,” he 
confessed. 

Bartley agreed; and the chief and Kelly went out 
into the yard, Carter with them. After the good- 
nights were said, and they drove away, we returned 
to the library. By his desk Thayer turned to ask: 

“Who tried to run over Pelt, John?” 

Bartley, who was standing looking at a print on 
the wall, did not turn a's he replied: “I don’t know, 
Billy. That’s one of the loose ends in the case. It 
was not the doctor, if that’s what you mean. He 
told me to-day that Culver asked him to meet him 
in the woods the day Pelt saw them together, and he 
made some vague hints about having a quantity of 
drugs. I judge he was trying to secure the doctor’s 
aid in disposing of them, since he was afraid to take 
them through the usual channels. But who tried to 
run Pelt down, we shall never know.” 

Silence fell again, and during it Thayer walked 
over to his writing desk and stood looking at a heap 
of typewritten manuscript before him. I saw him 
turn several pages, pausing to read what he had 
written. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he 
placed the manuscript back on the desk. 

Bartley, who had been watching him, gave a little 


BARTLEY ENDS HIS CASE 313 

chuckle, as he asked: “Going to use this case for 
your* detective story?” 

Thayer gave a deep groan, shaking his head. 
“No,” he said, “it can't be done.” 

“Why not?” I retorted. “This one is true.” 

He laughed. “That’s the trouble, Pelt. Just 
think what every one would say. They would call 
the plot impossible, or say it was old stuff. It’s true 

all right enough, but-” 

“But what?” I asked. 

He grinned, as he turned to us both. “That’s the 
trouble—it’s true. After this I will stick to fiction. 
Truth is too impossible.” 


THE END 























































































